


Desperate Ground

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Hell, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Torture, no betas we saunter vaguely downwards, thank u mr neil for my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 55,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: After they prevented the apocalypse and escaped execution, Crowley and Aziraphale thought they were safe from the machinations of Heaven and Hell. But there are still some demons with scores to settle - and since the angel and demon have made it clear to the world how far they're willing to go for each other, Hell has plenty of leverage on them.





	1. Desperate Ground

“Get off me,” Crowley snarled, yanking his arm from the grip of the lesser demon holding it. But he was held fast, his hands shackled behind his back, one demon holding each of his arms, as he was led toward Beelzebub’s throne.

They threw Crowley to his knees and he looked up, yellow eyes glaring at the demon who was looking down at him, a satisfied expression on his face.

“What is this?” Crowley demanded. “Where’s the angel?”

“He was captured, same as you,” Beelzebub said. “You two really got sloppy there, down on earth.”

“Let me see him,” Crowley said. “I swear, if you’ve touched him –“

“Ah,” Beelzebub interrupted, “but you should know better. Demons can’t hurt angels. It’s -” he sneered and rolled his eyes - “forbidden.”

“Let him go, then.”

“No,” Beelzebub said, sounding almost bored. “We captured both of you, and we’re keeping you, fair and square. We just can’t do anything to him. That’s where you come in.”

A cold terror knotted in Crowley’s stomach.

“We all have to follow the rules set forth by Heaven and Hell, governing the realms, and keeping everything working. You, on the other hand – you’ve decided you’re not one of us anymore, and not beholden to the way things are done down here.”

“You wouldn’t,” Crowley hissed.

“Well yes,” Beelzebub said, annoyed. “That’s what I just said. We won’t do anything to your precious angel – but _you_ will.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Let me explain. There’s a certain amount of suffering that Heaven and Hell have decreed is required as penance for these transgressions. All of it must be paid, but it’s up to you how much of the debt you yourself take on.”

Crowley scoffed. He knew there was no way that Heaven or Hell would ever come to him and say alright, your debt is paid, hurry off now, and let him go. Beez was just planting false hope, attempting to manipulate him.

The throned demon ignored Crowley’s dismissal. “You will be provided with any and all of Hell’s torture implements. Any pain you inflict on the angel will be deducted from yours.”

“Fuck you.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “I’ll lay it out simply for you, since you’re stupid enough to think you can get away with betraying us: the more you hurt him, the less we’ll hurt you.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Very well,” said the demon haughtily. “Play the martyr. We’ll see how long that resolve lasts. You’re a demon, Crowley. At your core, you’re selfish. Evil. We'll see how many licks it takes to get down to that core of yours.” They smiled at their own joke.

As the two demons guarding Crowley lifted him to his feet and began to lead him away from the disgusting little throne room where Beelzebub reigned, Crowley kicked and struggled. "Let me see him!" he shouted. No one answered, though one of the demons holding him seemed to be giggling. 

Crowley fought hard, opening his wings and slamming them into the demons at his sides. One of them let go, and he twisted around to fight the other, hurling his elbow into the demon's chest. Free from their grasp, he began to run, awkwardly with his wrists behind his back, down a corridor. He stopped when he reached a dead end and tugged at the chains for a moment before realizing he could escape them by taking his snake form.

He snapped into his serpentine body and began to slither quickly down the hallway when a heavy boot came down on his neck, or rather, the bit of his body just behind his head. "Nowhere to run, Crowley," gloated a familiar voice. Hastur. Great.

Crowley returned to his human form, throwing Hastur off balance. He rolled over and sprang to his feet, ready to strike with his un-manacled hands.

"Now that's going to get real old," said Beelzebub, now standing in the corridor watching the two demons prepare to spar. They flicked their wrist and conjured a long whip blazing with Hellfire, which they shot toward Crowley. 

Crowley went down, his arms wrapped in the excruciating flame. Beelzebub was crouching over him now, a pair of black wrought-iron pliers in their small hands. Eyes wide in rage and pain, Crowley watched as Beelzebub forced the pliers into his mouth and took hold of one of his fangs, gripping and yanking until it came out in a mess of blood and tissue. Crowley howled, which only served to make it easier for Beelzebub to grab the other one and remove it as well.

The prince stood back and coiled the whip back into their hand, leaving Crowley sprawled on the floor, spitting blood. "There," they said, clapping their hands. "No more snake business for you."

Beelzebub turned to leave, then spoke to Hastur. "He shouldn't be able to cause more problems, not like this at least. Put him in his cell."

Hastur hauled Crowley to his feet, one hand on his arm, the other at the back of his neck, and pulled him forward. Crowley put up a bit of a fight, his hands still free, but a hard punch to his newly mutilated jaw sent pain radiating through him and he dropped his hands. Hastur wiped his bloody fist on Crowley's shirt before taking hold of him again.

His cell was dark and empty - just him and cold stone. Crowley reached up to touch the bleeding gaps in his gums where his fangs had been, then withdrew his hand with a hiss of pain. No snake powers. Okay. He still had his wits about him. He still had his wings. And - most importantly - he still had his angel.

Aziraphale. Who was somewhere in Hell, where he had no business being - surely giving these demons a piece of his mind. Crowley smiled at the thought of Aziraphale bossing these assholes around, demanding a softer chair, some strawberry shortcake, threatening the fury of the archangels. Wherever he was, he was surely holding his own. But that thought was a small comfort. 

If Beelzebub was telling the truth, then Aziraphale was safe, for now, as long as Crowley never agreed to torture him. Which he never would. But just because the demons couldn't lay hands on him, it didn't mean that Aziraphale wasn't miserable, and scared, and suffering in other ways. Hell was capable of a lot more than just physically hurting a body. 

He had to find him. He would find him, and he would get them both out of here. And for that, he'd need energy. So, his mouth still throbbing, Crowley lay down on the hard floor, and resolved to sleep until he had a better plan. 


	2. I Can Bring You Back To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley realizes things have fallen into a pattern. Which means his initial plan of holding out indefinitely seems like it needs an upgrade. He schemes, like the clever serpent that he is, to try and see Aziraphale.

Crowley’s least favorite tormentor – insofar as he could be said to have favorites – was Corson. The demon was tall, with broad shoulders and long arms, and seemed to move like a praying mantis, all gliding limbs and darting strikes.

Today, he had Crowley laid out flat on a stone slab, wrists and ankles pinned down with shackles bolted directly to the stone. Hell certainly had its preferred aesthetic, one Crowley had always found a bit over the top.

Corson was trailing a long, thin blade down Crowley’s torso, slicing and twisting at random. The pain was red-hot and sharp, pointed. Crowley had begun cataloguing the different types of torture, as if he could detach himself from the pain by taking a more clinical approach. Some tools made grey-silver crackles, others were suffocating and white, still others felt black and deep, ringing out through his body.

When Corson shoved the blade between two of Crowley’s ribs and twisted, Crowley screamed. His back arched up off the slab, which was slick with blood. He couldn’t die down here, and they were careful not to discorporate him, but this demonic body could take far more than a standard human could, and Crowley was far beyond anything earthly, having crossed into a realm of suffering only reachable in Hell.

Corson left the knife where it was, jerking sickeningly as Crowley gasped for breath, and leaned down. “Come on,” Corson cooed as he ran a finger down Crowley’s cheek. “He can’t possibly be worth all this. Can he?”

Crowley turned his head away from Corson, his eyes clenched shut.

“Or is it…that _you’re_ not worth it.” Corson stood, walking slowly around his captive, amusement in his tone. “You think that if you ask him to take some of this for you, he won’t. Here you are, suffering all this just to save him. What if you start in on him, and he begs you to stop? What if he’s willing to let you feel all of Hell’s wrath just to save himself?”

Despite himself, Crowley whimpered. He’d been crying, sobbing, for who knows how long now – but that was just his body’s reaction, wrenched from him by Corson’s knives and whips. He won’t let the demon see him really cry, really give in. Corson can yank as much pain as he wants from Crowley’s body, but he’ll never get his despair. His helplessness. Crowley would never let him.

No, those type of tears belong to no one but Crowley. And he only lets them come when he’s alone, sprawled on the floor of his cell, when the pain has subsided enough to let even crueler thoughts seep in. Thoughts of his angel, of their life together, of all that he’s lost, and all that he can’t bear to lose.

***

Back in his cell for what felt like the millionth time, after the millionth session, wherein the demons tried to tempt him into agreeing to lay hands on Aziraphale, and Crowley refused, Crowley settled his aching body down, wincing as his broken skin met the rough stone.

They kept him shirtless and barefoot, though continued to let him keep his pants, nearly in tatters at this point. Crowley figured this was to provide some of the demons with plausible deniability when it came to certain types of torture. And to allow the rest of them to relish in the fresh spikes of fear whenever someone began to remove them.

No one had today, which was a small mercy. It had been a relatively routine day of torture. Crowley had to almost laugh at the wreck his life had turned into, where being violated in only some ways was considered a mercy; or there was such a thing as a 'routine' torture session.

It was always the same, these days. And he was starting to grow worried. Well, that was a lie. He had been worried since day one. But it was the never ending sameness that was starting to prickle in his mind these days. In the beginning, he had schemed and planned about how to resist them, how to get out from under their plans. Now he had resistance down to a habit at this point, and they didn’t seem to be changing.

He had heard nothing about Aziraphale, only been taunted about his angel’s presence here in Hell. He knew they had him – no, actually, that wasn’t true. He knew that Hell had captured Aziraphale at the same time that they’d taken Crowley. But that had been ages ago.

Maybe he had been given back up to Heaven. Maybe he has escaped. Maybe Hell was hurting him too, having realized they weren’t going to get Crowley to do it for them.

It was the uncertainty that was killing Crowley, driving him mad faster than the agony he endured, though it was a close race. So he resolved that the next time they pulled him from his cell, he’d break. Or pretend to. They’d have to put him in the same room as Aziraphale, if he was to torture him. And then he’d at least be able to see – whether Aziraphale was alive, whether he was here.

They’d be together, at least until the forces of Hell realized Crowley had no intention of harming Aziraphale. He would have to use his time wisely. Be quick, and clever. He smiled to himself as he lay back and began to plan, his tongue absentmindedly probing the scarred-over spots where his fangs had been, a habit he’d picked up during all this time in solitude.

He had to make it convincing, he knew. He couldn’t just meet them in the doorway and ask to be taken to Aziraphale – he had to wait for a believable breaking point, and give them what they wanted.

It was perhaps the first time someone in the depths of Hell hoped that extreme torture was in their near future. Crowley nearly shook with nervous energy, too wounded to pace his cell, his tongue flicking between his teeth, as he lay, and thought, and planned, and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapter titles, as well as the fic's title, are taken from lyrics on the album "Desperate Ground" by The Thermals. Check them out!
> 
> Corson is a demonic name, but it doesn't have much meaning in the story. I gave up looking for a demon with the right symbolic background and just settled on a name that sounded good. I'll probably need more demon OCs, so if you have name suggestions, leave 'em in the comments.


	3. Each Night I Dream Of A War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sets a plan in motion that he hopes will get him to Aziraphale.

Crowley was almost sick with anticipation, and dread, and thrill. He had his plan, knew exactly what he’d whisper in his angel’s ear when he held him, pretending to harm him, though it would break his heart even to pantomime.

And if, in fact, he was calling Hell’s bluff, if they did not have Aziraphale, could not provide him his so-called victim, well, he had a plan for that too.

He had thought about nearly every contingency. It was all he did, during those long hours (days? weeks?) when they left him alone in his cell.

And when they came for him, he was ready. It was Corson again – the first and only time Crowley would be glad to see that sadist.

He fought a little as Corson strung his arms up. He always did. Couldn’t help it. And he had to make sure today was no different.

Soon he was bound, his lithe body helpless and vulnerable. It was one of Corson’s favorite positions for his victim – arms chained high up, forcing Crowley to stand on tiptoe or wrench his shoulders out of their sockets.

Crowley smelled sulfur and heard a crackling noise, and knew it was a hellfire whip even before he felt it tear into his flesh. He arched his back, his face turned upward as he screamed. He’d given up on fighting that long ago, gaining nothing from his stubborn stoicism. Better to give the pain some release, better not to fight himself. He was fighting enough already.

Today, though, he had to stay focused. If he let himself fall into the dissociative space of enduring, he might miss his chance, might miss the moment when the pain reached its peak and his surrender would make sense.

So he gritted his teeth and stayed tuned in, instead of trying to block out the pain. Corson never seemed to tire of this toy, which lashed at Crowley, crossing his skin with lines of indescribable pain. It was so hard to control himself, now that he was committed to his plan. Crowley wanted it to stop, knew he could make it stop, but held out, waiting. It would get worse. It always got worse.

And there it was. Corson dropped the whip to the floor and stood behind Crowley, running his hands over the tattered flesh before dropping them to the button of his trousers.

“Wait,” Crowley croaked.

“Oh?”

“Don’t…I can’t.” Crowley hung his head in mock shame, though it felt all too real. “I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” Corson toyed with the fraying waistband of Crowley’s pants. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’ll…I’ll hurt the angel.”

Corson seemed surprised, though pleasantly so. He stepped back from Crowley and walked to the door of the room, leaned out, and seemed to be talking with someone. Crowley fidgeted in his chains.

Then Corson walked back in and approached Crowley. He didn’t make a move to remove the shackles, though. Instead, he pulled something out of his pocket.

“Open up,” Corson said, cruel glee in his voice.

Crowley’s eyes widened in rage. It was a bit. Metal and leather, some terrible contraption forged in Hell. And it was going in his mouth.

“Aw, you didn’t think we’d just let you in there with your precious angel, all ready to explain the situation and profess your love, did you?” Corson sneered as he grabbed Crowley’s jaw in one hand and squeezed, trying to force the demon’s mouth open.

“Nah, we’re smarter than you give us credit for, you sorry little snake.”

Crowley tried to twist out of Corson’s grasp, but there was no escape.

“The cool thing about this one,” Corson said as he shoved the bit into Crowley’s mouth, “is that it’s invisible once it’s in. See?” He tightened a screw and Crowley felt the metal scrape past his teeth and shove into the roof of his mouth. A bar held his tongue down. He made a muffled noise of protest, but he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t move his tongue. Couldn’t speak.

Corson ran his thumb over Crowley’s lips, now closed over the device. “Angel baby in there, he won’t know that you’re gagged. He’ll be begging, asking you all sorts of questions, and you’ll just be silent. For all he knows, you don’t even think he’s worth speaking to anymore. Imagine that. You just come in, beat on him a little, and leave.”

Crowley thrashed and glared at Corson, full of fury. His plan, his whole plan, was falling apart in front of him. He wanted to scream at him, to curse, to tell Corson just what a rotten miserable son of a bitch he really was. But all he could manage was soft, pathetic noises.

A crowd of demons appeared then, raucous and cheering, and he was hauled down from the chains and taken somewhere else, somewhere he would see his angel, which he had hoped for, but not like this, he couldn’t let Aziraphale see him like this, he wouldn’t be able to explain, the angel wouldn’t understand, his poor angel, he wouldn’t be able to tell him how much he loved him, forget the plan, forget it all, he didn’t want to frighten his angel with his battered body, his painful silence.

His thoughts raced, panic and frustration burning hot within him. He didn’t have a plan for this. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Crowley struggled and tried to run, but the crowd bore him forward like a wave and then he was standing at a doorway, and he was shoved through, and there was his angel, Aziraphale, so lovely and so strong, and Crowley had never felt more helpless.


	4. I Will Love You When I Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale get to see each other. But that's about all they can do.

Life in Hell was excruciatingly boring. Which quite surprised Aziraphale, given everything he had heard. Although, he had found Heaven quite boring as well, so it figured.

Still, it seemed strange. Strange that here he was, an angel captured by Hell, and all they seemed to be doing was keeping him stored away in a tiny room. It had a bed – more like a cot, really – with a scratchy brown blanket thrown over it, and a flimsy lamp, which Aziraphale wasn’t able to turn off. And that was it. No table, no chair, no books, no food. No windows. Nothing.

Nothing to do but pace – ten paces down the long end of the room, five down the short – and think. Worry, more like. Mostly about Crowley. Then, worry about himself, and whether he would be trapped in this horrible little cell for the rest of eternity. Worry back over in his mind the days and moments before their capture, about whether they could have prevented it. Whether he could have done something. Protected them.

And so he paced, and he worried, and he paced some more. He occasionally sat down on the bed, but the contrast between the stiff cot and the big, fluffy mattress from home, from back then, from before…it was too much to handle. He had tried to sleep, but it was impossible, though he couldn’t tell whether it was a demonic curse hindering him, his lack of practice, or just the misery of his circumstances that prevented it.

Aziraphale was starting to think that there was nothing worse than this extended boredom, this helpless captivity, trapped without knowing where Crowley was, or what was happening to him.

***

Some interminable time later, Aziraphale was sitting cross-legged on his tiny, stiff bed, wondering just how much time he had missed down on earth, when a demon opened the door to his chamber. His form was humanoid, but only barely. He was huge, with sickly-red skin and boils covering his bulging muscles. His eyes were narrow slits in a swollen-looking face.

“Get up,” he said. His voice was deep and gruff, and it sounded as if he wasn’t too accustomed to speaking.

Aziraphale immediately stood and began to sputter, hundreds of questions about to pour out of him, about Crowley, about what was going on, about –

“Shut up,” the demon snarled. “Take that off.”

“What?”

The demon gestured toward Aziraphale’s coat. “Take it off.”

Aziraphale gingerly removed his coat and set it gently on the bed.

“All of it.”

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale said, his voice wavering. “I’m not sure that’s entirely –“

The demon took a step toward him, menacingly, and Aziraphale raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat, folding and laying it on the bed, followed by his shirt. The air in Hell felt putrid against his skin, and he felt the disgusting gaze of the demon on his chest.

When he was entirely naked from the waist up, the demon pointed down at his feet. “And the shoes.”

Relieved that he would be allowed to keep his pants on, Aziraphale obeyed, though the thought of walking through Hell’s hallways barefoot made him want to retch. He would be strong, compliant, give them no reason to harm him. Or Crowley. He would stay calm, resolved, civilized. Able to negotiate. Demons were always angling for some sort of deal, right? Screaming and pleading was never a good look for someone who wanted a seat at the table.

“Come.” The demon gestured for Aziraphale to follow him. He lifted his head and his hands went to his neck to adjust his bowtie and collar, a nervous habit, before he realized he wasn’t wearing it. Instead he clenched his fists at his side and walked behind the demon.

In a near instant, it seemed, they were in a large room – a dungeon, it seemed, from the chains and torture implements on the walls. Aziraphale swallowed hard. His first thought was for Crowley. What had they done to him? Was he in this terrible place? And what was about to happen now? His lower lip trembled, fear overtaking him.

The demon put a rough hand in between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades and shoved him forward. With a soft noise of indignance, he walked as he was guided until he was under two long chains, hanging from the ceiling. “Stand still,” the demon commanded, as he stopped behind Aziraphale and removed his hand from the angel’s back.

Aziraphale’s resolve was beginning to waver. It seemed that no one was going to engage him in conversation, provide any explanation, or give him the opportunity to strike a deal. “Good sir,” he began, turning around to face the demon.

“Still,” the demon hissed through gritted teeth, grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulder and wrenching him roughly around. “Wings,” he demanded.

“Is that quite necessary?” Loathe to let his wings out in Hell, Aziraphale felt that this might be a point worth pushing back on.

The demon placed a heavy, clawed hand around Aziraphale’s neck and leaned in close to his ear. “Wings,” he said, “or it gets bad for your friend.”

Aziraphale felt his eyes well with tears at the first mention of Crowley. In an instant he unfurled his wings, the feathery whoosh of their opening concealing a small and stifled sob.

He hated how easy it was to control him, how clear it was to everyone here that as long as they had Crowley, they had all the power. All the leverage.

Aziraphale stood still, then felt cold chains wrap around the base of his left wing. The demon wrapped it tightly, then locked it. Aziraphale could feel his feathers cracking and bending under the chains, and the muscles of his wings began to ache in protest.

He closed his eyes and bit his lip as the demon did the same to his right wing. Once he was done, Aziraphale would be able to extend his wings from the second joint, but he was locked in place where he stood, tethered at his back. The demon walked around to his front and cuffed his wrists in metal shackles, hooking them to yet more chains, forcing the angel’s arms up above his head. Aziraphale made no moves or noises to protest this, not knowing what might possibly be worth saying or doing at this point.

The demon stepped back and looked Aziraphale’s bound body up and down, then smiled a garish smile, clearly pleased with his handiwork. Aziraphale felt himself trembling, sure that what came next would not be pleasant.

Then, the demon turned and walked out of the room. Aziraphale heard the door shut behind him. A few moments passed, the air around him deathly still. Then another door opened, this one facing him, and there in the doorway, a familiar silouette.

Crowley.

His demon looked a fright. Shirtless and shoeless, just like Aziraphale, his bare skin was marred by dozens – no, hundreds – of burns, cuts, and bruises. His lovely red hair was lank and greasy, hanging around his face, which was bowed down toward the floor. Through the open doorway, Aziraphale could hear hooting and hollering.

“My love,” Aziraphale cried out, forgetting his chains and taking a step forward. The bindings on his wings yanked him back, and he struggled for a moment to get his feet back under him.

Crowley said, nothing. He limped toward Aziraphale and fell into his chest, his head burrowed into the crook of the angel’s shoulder.

Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to hold Crowley, to run his hands through the demon’s hair, to caress his battered face. But he couldn’t. Instead, he wrapped his wings around Crowley’s body. It hurt, straining his chained wings like this, but it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale murmured, ducking his chin down to nuzzle Crowley. The demon gave no response, only clung tighter, his arms around the angel’s neck. Aziraphale’s shoulders groaned with the extra weight hanging on them. Aziraphale pushed the pain to the very back of his mind – not a difficult task, given that he had Crowley to focus on.

The raucous noise from the demons outside the doorway grew louder. Aziraphale heard laughter and jeers, but ignored it all. “What have they done to you, love?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley only shook his head feebly.

“It’s okay, dear,” Aziraphale cooed. “You don’t have to talk. You’re here. I’m here. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay, of course. Aziraphale desperately wanted Crowley to lift his head and talk to him. He wanted to know what had happened, what was going on. He wanted to make a plan, to know what his clever demon knew. But it seemed Crowley needed something else. And so they clung to each other in soft silence, Aziraphale brushing against Crowley’s torn skin with his gentle wings, Crowley clutching the angel’s hanging body like a raft in a storm.

Until two demons came in, laughing, and shoved Aziraphale’s wings aside to grab Crowley. He made a low whine of protest, a sound so helpless and pathetic that it broke Aziraphale’s heart more than even the sight of the beaten demon.

“Couldn’t do it, huh?” one of the demons taunted, pulling Crowley’s hair so that he was looking into Aziraphale’s face. “Pity. You could have earned yourself a little break. Looks like it’s just gotta be double for you tonight.”

Crowley seemed to collapse, his lanky body crumpling toward the floor, caught only by the two demons holding him. He still hadn’t looked at Aziraphale, hadn’t said a word to him. The demons took him by his arms and dragged him from the room.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried after him. The chains above him rattled as he fought them, fresh pain shooting through his wings and shoulders. Then the door shut, and he was left with the cold silence of the dungeon.

Eventually the big demon returned, and without a word, began to unwrap the chains. “What was that about?” Aziraphale demanded. “What did they mean, double for him? What have you done to Crowley?”

“Quiet,” the demon said, wrenching Aziraphale’s wing roughly as he removed the chains.

“I shan’t, I don’t take orders from you,” Aziraphale said impetuously. The demon ignored him, impassively removing the chains from his wrists while Aziraphale talked. “I’ve been cooped up here for who knows how long – me, an angel! In Hell! And no one has been to speak with me, no one will tell me anything. I demand a line up to Heaven, or an audience with Beelzebub, or, or, or – someone!”

The massive demon only grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulder and began walking him toward the door they’d come in through. He didn’t say anything

But they had let them see each other. Had let them hold each other, for a time. Why? What was it all about? And why was Crowley so obviously being tortured, when Aziraphale had done nothing to resist or refuse an order?

He had plenty to think about. He barely noticed the indignity of the demon shoving him back into his cell and locking it without a word. Aziraphale gingerly put his wings away, wincing at the pain, then slowly put his clothes back on, relieved to see that they were still folded neatly on his cot. He sat down, his head in his hands, and tried to make sense of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also want to plug "That Hopeful Feeling" by @oceantears, another amazing Crowley & Aziraphale fic with plenty of hurt/comfort.


	5. Know We Are Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale hasn't learned much from his brief encounter with Crowley, but he does know a bit more than he did before. Working from meagre intel, but unwilling to remain passive, he puts together a plan of action.
> 
> ALSO: I have a tumblr now! Find me at desperateground.tumblr.com. I'm mostly reblogging fanart that gives me inspiration for this story right now. I'm hoping to make some original content too, like moodboards and playlists and stuff.
> 
> Please come say hi, send me a question, fic requests, any thoughts or responses to this story, whatever! It would make my day.

Thinking back over what he had just seen, Aziraphale could barely contain the rage and frustration that swelled up in him. He stood up and pounded his fist on the door, knowing it would accomplish nothing beyond aggravating the pain in his arms and shoulders. 

He paced the room, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat, which had grown baggy on him lately. His captors never provided him any food, and though he didn’t technically need food to live, this sudden new diet had done a number on his frame. 

Forgetting himself for a moment, he attempted a miracle, focusing his the power of his angelic fury on the heavy stone door that closed off his cell. The blast had nowhere to go, slamming back into him with enough force to knock the breath out of him. He panted, sinking back down onto his cot.

Grotesque sigils flared along the door, lit up in red and white flames. It did that every time he tried to perform any kind of miracle. He was trapped in here, trapped by demonic magic, and he knew that - had known that since the first days of his captivity, when he tried anything and everything to escape, and was endlessly rebuffed by that accursed door.

This angry fretting wasn’t going to help anyone, he scolded himself, taking a few deep breaths to steady his rattling heart. _ Think, Aziraphale. Slow down, and think. _

What did he know? He wished he had a notebook in front of him, to collect the meager set of facts he had to work with. 

One, he knew that he was in Hell, trapped behind a door that didn’t allow him any of his angelic powers. He knew that he was being left alone entirely. He knew that he had been here for quite some time.

Two, he knew that Hell also had Crowley. And that they were torturing him. Aziraphale clenched his fists, rage rising back up through him. _Steady, steady. Melting down won’t help. _

If they were hurting Crowley, but not him, there must be a reason. The simplest explanation was that they couldn’t hurt Aziraphale, for whatever reason. Probably because he was an angel. Still under some sort of protection. 

But they could keep him here. Rob him of his power, starve him, let him go slowly mad in solitude, deprive him of everything. 

Three, he knew there was more going on with Crowley than standard Hellish punishment. Why hadn’t he spoken to Aziraphale? And what had they said to Crowley, as they dragged him away? _Couldn't do it, huh? Guess that means double for you tonight_. What did it mean? Couldn't do what? 

Aziraphale had his theories, but none of them were clear enough to be considered facts. Nothing he could act on, at least. 

One thing he knew for sure, though: he needed to get out of this room. Even if it was back to that dungeon where he’d seen Crowley, even if it was somewhere even more terrible and bizarre. He could do absolutely nothing in here, alone. He would rather take his chances. He had to get someone, anyone, to come speak with him.

But how? He had tried everything he could think of in those early days, physical and ethereal, from brute force to cleverness. All that had happened was that the door burned to life, mocking him with the twisted symbols that arose, wafting a hideous sulphuric scent into his tiny room.

Sulphur. Brimstone. The door was inscribed with actual hellfire. 

Maybe that was something. 

He didn’t have access to any angelic magic, but he did have some hellfire, right here under his fingertips. It was beneath the stone somehow, such that it never actually burned him, even when he was throwing his entire body against the door with enough force to leave himself bruised for days afterwards.

But it was there.

A plan started to form in Aziraphale’s mind. It seemed to click together from the facts he had been running over and over in his mind.

It was a terrible, foolish plan, one that rested on a dozen assumptions, any of which, if proven false, would be the end of the angel.

But it was a plan. Something new to try. And he was desperate. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and slowed his thoughts as much as possible, trying to be strategic and cool-headed as he went through it all again.

Fact: Hell seemed unwilling, or unable, to actually harm Aziraphale. Conclusion: Aziraphale was still under some sort of Heavenly protection.

Hell had something to lose, here.

Demons couldn’t heal angels. If something happened to Aziraphale, they’d need to call Heaven for help, lest they end up with a destroyed angel on their watch. Aziraphale doubted that Hell would enjoy the consequences of his death.

And here he was, alone with a hellfire-enchanted door.

But what else could he do but watch it flame and flare, enduring its acrid odor? He couldn’t do anything to affect the door, and any miracle he tried just bounced back into him, thwarted and deadened.

He looked around. He had nothing in here but that stupid lamp, and a cot, with one scratchy blanket.

No. That wasn’t all he had. He had his clothing. A shirt, tie, waistcoat, jacket, trousers, and shoes.

Aziraphale couldn’t perform miracles in here, not anymore, but he had done plenty of miraculous work on his clothing. Centuries of wear meant that the only reason they weren’t absolutely threadbare was Aziraphale’s ongoing love, angelic grace literally woven in between the strands of the fabric.

So, he might not have his Heavenly powers here, but he had some objects absolutely infused with them. He took his coat off and laid it down gently, then removed his beloved waistcoat. Aziraphale carefully inspected it, thinking of all the joy and pleasures he’d experienced while wearing it. He bowed his head and said a short eulogy for his well-worn friend, loyal through hundreds of years.

The buttons were metal, covered over in leather, which he deftly picked off, leaving flat little brass disks with looped backs. He pulled one off, feeling the sadness of the threads as they snapped. Held close to his face, the little button back seemed to almost hum. 

Now, to work. In only his shirt now, Aziraphale knelt on the floor and, holding the button by its back, rubbed the edge of the metal against the rough stone. It scraped and sparked, making a noise that set Aziraphale’s teeth on edge. It was a tough little bugger. _ You’re doing so well, _ he thought to the button, welling up with gratitude for all its faithful service, knowing its final task will be the hardest. _ Thank you. I know it hurts. Just a bit more. _

He kept at this task, frequently catching his knuckles on the floor and knocking the skin off, leaving them red and raw. The button slowly, slowly ground down, making it sharp where it had once been curved and smooth. He inspected it, running his finger over the new edge. 

Now for the next step. 

He glanced around the room, wondering for the millionth time whether some agent of Hell was watching him. Surely he couldn’t have been left so completely alone, ignored, forgotten? 

But, he reminded himself, even if someone did realize what he was doing and come in to stop him, his plan would have succeeded anyway. All he intended to do was force Hell’s hand a bit, get himself out of here. Wherever he ended up next, well, he hoped he’d have more to work with, and he’d figure it out from there.

Aziraphale held the button tightly between his thumb and forefinger and approached the door. He leaned his forehead against the hard, unforgiving stone. And he conjured up all his angelic strength, directing a miracle directly into the door.


	6. Alone In The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's plan to force Hell's hand doesn't go well.
> 
> This is the chapter for which the "self harm" tag is relevant. Be mindful!

Aziraphale gritted his teeth as the force of the miracle rebounded from the door. The sigils burned brightly, searing his eyes, but he kept them open, scanning for what looked like a weak point. He blinked, shaking his head in quick bursts to try and clear his blurred vision, but kept searching.

_ There, in the crux of a malformed X. _

He continued attempting the miracle, though it was draining him with a miserable ache, most noticeable in his arms and shoulders. And as he did, he shoved the sharpened bit of button into the segment of stone he’d identified, where it seemed to be straining a bit to contain the hellfire encased within it.

A regular old bit of metal would have had no chance against such demonic resistance. But this was a charmed button, covered in hundreds of years of angelic love and little strengthening miracles. Aziraphale twisted it, feeling its edge press painfully into his fingers, not letting up. He leaned with all his might into the little button, his head throbbing with the rebounding miracle, the door flaring its resistance.

Suddenly, the stink of sulphur went from faint to nearly overpowering. Aziraphale felt his fingers burn, and yanked his hand away. A crumbled bit of stone fell to the floor, its edges running wild with hellfire like a coal fresh from a fireplace. 

Dropping to his knees, Aziraphale took hold of the button and held it against his inner forearm. He didn’t know how much time he had; whether the fire would burn itself out. His eyes streamed from the stench and the smoke, his lungs and throat felt as if he’d swallowed acid.  _ Focus, _ he told himself, thinking of Crowley. He twisted the button’s jagged point into his skin, wincing as it dug out a small cut.

And then, without giving himself any more time to think, he grabbed the bit of brimstone and pressed it into the cut. 

The pain was indescribable. Aziraphale fell backwards, hitting his back hard against the floor, his eyes closed, crying out in anguish. His feet, kicking wildly, caught the lamp and toppled it over. Unthinking, Aziraphale clawed at his arm as if to remove the stone, then caught himself and pounded his fists against the floor. He brought his uninjured hand up to his mouth and bit down, unsure if he could take another second, knowing that he must.

If someone was watching him, surely they’d be here in a moment.

But no one came.

On the door above him, the symbols faded into a soft glow, then disappeared into the stone entirely. The smell faded, leaving only the faint odor of smoke and burnt flesh. Aziraphale did not know how long he spent twisted on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, jaw locked tight, enduring the unendurable. Slowly, slowly, the pain receded from an excruciating explosion through him into a terrible throb. 

His eyes were closed. He did not want to look at his arm. He took a shaky breath. He opened his eyes, and after a few abortive attempts, managed to glance down.

The site where he’d pressed the stone into himself was blackened and the skin seemed to smolder. Surrounding it was an angry red-grey coloration, which seemed to be spreading out like the tendrils of a fungus across his skin.

That couldn’t be good.

Which meant it was exactly what he had hoped for.

***

Aziraphale did not know how long he’d been suffering like this, but he had become convinced that no one was coming to help him.

He lay curled up on his cot, the sad brown blanket pulled tightly around him, his soft coat wadded under his head. It was covered in sweat, and tears. He was shivering, but so so hot, too hot, feverish, but so cold, too, somehow, colder than he’d ever been. Freezing, he pulled the blanket more tightly around him, but the trembling did not stop, and it only stuck to his sweat-drenched skin.

Aziraphale had always known this was a possibility, that his plan would fail. He would die here, miserable and alone. Entirely alone. Without Crowley.

He would die without Crowley.

He would die for Crowley. But in vain.

He had tried this, done this awful thing to himself, in a desperate shot to make it out of this room. Because wherever Crowley was, he wasn’t here, and Aziraphale couldn’t get to him in here, and he had to get out, had to leave, had to give himself some kind of chance to find the demon.

But he was still here. And Crowley still wasn’t.

And he was dying.

Aziraphale cradled his now entirely blackened arm with his other one, drawing his knees even tighter to himself, crying softly. He had done this for Crowley, and it hadn’t worked, and now Crowley would be alone too, without his angel fighting for him. He wouldn’t even know that Aziraphale had died in a foolish attempt to get back to him.

He tried to think about Crowley. If he was going to die, he wanted to die awash in memories of the good times, wrapped in the certainty of his love for the demon. He dragged his foggy mind through visions of the Ritz, of sun-drenched mornings in the bookshop, of rides in the Bentley, of…of...

...he was too tired to keep fighting his mind for more good memories. All he kept thinking of was the last time he’d seen Crowley, mute and destroyed, hanging on him. The smell of his body, filth and fear. Aziraphale’s failure to comfort him, his failure to do anything, the failure of this stupid plan, his failure…

He felt drowsy. Lately, he felt tired all the time, unable to move off his cot, but sleep was nearly impossible to come by. His eyelids were heavy, dropping closed, and he couldn’t open them, stopped bothering to try. Maybe this was it.

_ So this is how an angel disappears forever,  _ he thought bitterly,  _ hellfire coursing through his veins, alone, with only his own failures and regrets for company _ . It was his last clear thought before a darkness began to overtake him, not the sweet darkness of sleep, but a sickly, clawing darkness, one he tried to resist, pushing images of Crowley’s sweet, clever face to the forefront of his mind, before he couldn’t fight anymore, and he slipped down below the surface.


	7. Deep In A Dream I Am Free With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is not dead! (Y'all didn't think I'd do that to you, did you?) But he's also not free. And Heaven is getting impatient. 
> 
> (I have a tumblr for this story! Come say hi, send in drabble requests, and check out fanart that inspires me at desperateground.tumblr.com!)

Aziraphale was first aware of a voice speaking. Not to him...no, there were two voices, talking to each other. 

His next sensation was that of floating, as if he were lying face up on a bed, but there was no bed. It made no sense.

He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t move. He couldn’t move. Aziraphale tried to wiggle his toes, tried to turn his head. Nothing.

It then occurred to him that he was no longer in pain. He didn’t feel feverish, or cold. He didn’t feel, well...anything.

It was as if every muscle, every nerve, every inch of his body was numb. It felt like everything was asleep, except for his mind.

His mind. Awake.

Alive.

_ Focus. _

The voices.

“You really ought to have called us sooner,” one was saying. The answer that came was mumbled, and Aziraphale couldn’t make it out.

“You lot aren’t even supposed to touch him,” the voice scolded. “How did this even happen?”

Aziraphale recognized that voice. He was straining so hard to place it that again he missed the reply.

“To himself, hm? Well, don’t let it happen again.”

The voice was haughty, but not domineering. Feminine, and stern, almost…

_ Michael. _

It was the archangel Michael. 

Aziraphale wanted desperately to say something to her, to lift his head and speak, but he couldn’t. He put every bit of effort and strength he had into doing so, but all he accomplished was a weak groan.

“He’s waking up,” Michael said.

“Yes,” said the other voice, sounding a bit nervous. This voice was softer, more whining, almost a buzz... _ Beelzebub _ ?

“You know,” Aziraphale heard Michael say, “it doesn’t seem as if your plan, so to speak, has succeeded. I wonder if perhaps it wouldn’t be best for you to remand him into our custody, to handle the sentence ourselves. He is, after all, under our jurisdiction.”

“I understand that,” Beelzebub said, and Aziraphale could almost hear the sneer on the demon’s face. “But since we are the ones who captured him, he remains ours, and we intend to claim our spoils. As is our right,” Beelzebub finished, sounding a bit uncomfortable with the legalese.

Michael made a small scoffing noise. “If you insist. But know that a debt is owed, and if your lot is unable to extract appropriate penance, our patience will grow thin.” Michael paused, then amended, “ _ Thinner _ .”

“Yes,” said Beelzebub almost dismissively, as if to hurry the conversation to its end. “Heaven will get its ‘pound of flesh,’ I promise. Now, since the healing is done, you shouldn’t have any more business down here.”

Aziraphale didn’t catch Michael’s reply, since something was moving him away, his immobilized body floating in some unknown direction. He heard another demon’s voice, casual and annoyed.

“That prick of an archangel is right, boss. We don’t find a way to make this one start suffering, things’ll get bad, quick.”

“I know,” Beelzebub snapped, and Aziraphale felt a jerking motion as someone shoved his body forward. “Don’t worry. We’ll get him, and we’ll keep them. Both.”

Aziraphale’s body dropped with a hard landing on the floor, the hard stone rough under his skin. It was then that he realized he was entirely nude. He hadn’t been able to feel much before, but now, his skin was waking up. He could barely move his fingertips, too, and his toes. A good sign.

“Sleeping beauty doesn’t know what’s comin’.”

With that, the demons shut him back in his cell, and left him to continue the process of coming back to life.

***

Aziraphale stood up and stretched. His muscles felt a bit tight, but otherwise, he was "tickety-boo." He stretched his wings out, happy to see that they remained fine as well. Rarely did he show his wings down here, but it was good to give them some air. And to wrap them around himself in a pointless show of modesty.

He felt so exposed, naked like this. His clothes were all gone. He looked around on the floor for any stray threads, or buttons, but his cell was as bare as his own - well, as bare as him. The lamp was missing, too, replaced by a sconce embedded high in the cell wall. The cot was gone, leaving only the stupid blanket in a pile on the floor.

So he hadn’t died. He also hadn’t gotten a chance to, well, try anything. The only thing he had was a bit more information.

One: that the archangel Michael, and presumably the rest of Heaven, knew that Aziraphale was down here.

Two: that Aziraphale had been right in his assumption that Hell couldn’t actually torture him.

The rest was still a bit unclear, but it started to fall into place. Heaven clearly wanted Aziraphale back under their banner, but not to save him from whatever fate awaited here. Someone - well, everyone - wanted Aziraphale to suffer, and it seemed the squabble was over who got to do it.

This was one popularity contest Aziraphale would be happy to lose.

He folded his wings and put them away, then sat back down on the floor, pulling the awful blanket around himself. 

Crowley clearly had a part in all this, too. Michael had mentioned that Hell had a “plan,” which wasn’t working. Likely because Crowley was so stubborn. Aziraphale smiled at the thought of his precious demon, resolutely defying any intentions Hell had for him. But what was it costing him?

Aziraphale thought back to the last time he’d seen Crowley. They’d chained him up, sent Crowley in...Aziraphale’s throat tightened as a possibility he’d considered earlier, but dismissed as too unthinkable, bubbled up again.

_ Were they trying to force Crowley to hurt Aziraphale? _

Surely that would be more tortuous than anything Heaven or Hell could do to either of them independently. Aziraphale knew Crowley would never do it. Stupid, stubborn, lovely demon.

So here they all were, locked in an endless stalemate, one that kept Aziraphale in this holding pattern, adrift and helpless, and one that doomed Crowley to infinite torture. 

Wasn’t this suffering enough? Was Heaven not happy with this - this isolation, this deprivation, this distance from his beloved, this useless existence - as his so-called penance?

Aziraphale couldn’t bear it. The failure of his escape attempt, the knowledge that Heaven condoned this treatment, the separation from Crowley, the prospect of an eternity in this cursed tomb, naked and forgotten. 

He almost dissolved into tears, then balled his hands into fists and stood again, flaring his wings out, reminding himself of who he was. “ _ I am a principality _ ,” he said out loud, nearly a shout, listening to his voice echo in the small cell. “ _ I am the Guardian of the Eastern Gate!” _

This would not be his future. He would not abandon Crowley. 

“Think,” he commanded himself, still speaking out loud. “What did you hear? What else is there?” And he ran through, in painstaking detail, everything he had heard, everything that had happened. 

_ “Sleeping beauty doesn’t know what’s comin’.” _

A strange hope flickered in Aziraphale’s chest, then. It seemed that the powers of Hell were also growing impatient with this situation. Beelzebub intimated that he had other plans for the captives. Perhaps something was about to change. And though Aziraphale doubted it would change for the better, he gathered all his anger and strength and began to prepare. He would not fail again.


	8. I Know My Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell can't lay hands on Aziraphale. But they're no longer content with leaving him be. There are other ways to make an angel suffer.
> 
> (Come say hi to me on tumblr at @desperateground!)

He had been right - it was a much shorter time before someone returned for him, and he didn’t have to resort to anything dramatic. There were two demons in the doorway - the massive red one who had taken him the first time, and a shorter, squatter one, with huge black eyes and a tiny nose, wearing what looked like silver chainmail.

Hell was such an odd place, Aziraphale thought.

“Come with us,” said the smaller demon.

“Could I have some clothing, please.”

The demon rolled her eyes, which was an exaggerated gesture with her extra large features. “Let’s go.”

Aziraphale stood, grabbing the brown blanket and wrapping it around himself. “Where are we going?”

“Talks much,” remarked the red demon to his companion.

“I’m not here to answer your questions.”

The larger demon took Aziraphale by one arm, and the three began to head down a narrow hallway. Aziraphale kept one hand clutching the blanket around his naked body, which was not easy to do with the big demon holding onto his arm and the smaller demon setting a brisk pace.

“Where’s Crowley? What have you done to him?”

The demon just shrugged. She looked like she was enjoying herself.

They arrived at a strange little structure that reminded Aziraphale of a phone booth. He wondered if the demons had ever seen one, had ever been to earth. 

“What is this?”

“So curious,” said the demon with a sinister grin. Then she shoved Aziraphale inside and slid the door shut with a liquid glide. 

The walls were black, but seemed translucent somehow, as if they were made of obsidian, letting some soft gray light through. 

Aziraphale was not one for claustrophobia, being perfectly content in his cozy, cluttered bookshop and all of its dusty nooks and tucked-away reading spots. But this space left barely enough room for him to turn around, and an anxious tightness began to form in his chest.

He pressed one hand against the side of this strange prison, still holding his blanket with the other hand. It was cool and smooth to the touch. Dread settled on his mind like a thick fog. Was this his new cell? He thought endless hours in his old room were miserable - this would be so much worse.

“Hello?” He banged on the wall, doubting that anything would happen. He tried a miracle, but of course it didn’t work. 

Aziraphale had run out of things to try when the grey-black walls turned suddenly disappeared. He was in a dungeon room, similar to the one he’d seen Crowley in. A demon entered his field of vision, dragging a limp looking Crowley behind him by a pair of nasty looking manacles.

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale cried, and made to run toward his demon - but he slammed directly into something hard and unyielding.

“What the -” Aziraphale slammed the invisible wall with his hands. The tiny, phone-booth sized cell had not disappeared, it had just gone invisible. He looked up and saw Crowley being thrown face-first onto a stone slab, hating the way his ribs were visible through his pale skin, the way his nude form shook with the force of the impact.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screamed, his own voice echoing sharply back into his ears. He pounded on the wall. Neither of the figures looked up, or indicated that they could hear him in any way. “CROWLEY!”

Then the other demon, who looked to be a bit taller than Crowley, with long arms and glittering green eyes, fastened Crowley’s manacles to a ring on the stone slab, then began to walk around his prone captive, looking like a predator examining its prey.

“Don’t you touch him!” Aziraphale screamed, watching helplessly as the demon produced a length of chain, its edges laced with hellfire. He raised it above Crowley’s bound body.

“NO!” 

Aziraphale heard the clanging of the chain through the air, heard the heavy impact as it landed its first blow against Crowley’s back, and then he heard a low and anguished moan.

It was the worst sound he had ever heard.

“STOP! YOU CAN’T!  _ STOP _ !” Aziraphale continued to beat on the walls, shouting and pleading, but the demon continued to bring the chain down onto Crowley’s back. 

“Crowley, darling!” Aziraphale tried to get Crowley’s attention, but it was clear that no one could see him, or hear him.

Crowley had been lying relatively still, his body apparently surrendered to the agony. Until the tormentor paused and looped the chain once in his hand, halving its length. He brought the doubled down chain down onto Crowley’s bare feet, and Crowley lifted his head from the slab, his neck stiff, his back arched, and wailed.

Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see Crowley’s face, but now he was forced to witness every instant, every line, every millimeter of pain Crowley was enduring. Tears streamed down the angel’s face as he pressed himself against the barrier between them, sobbing for his beloved.

When Crowley lay his head back on the slab, he was looking toward Aziraphale, who saw the deadened, glassy look in his eyes, his split and bitten lip twisted in anguish. It was too much. Aziraphale thrust his wings out, but they had nowhere to go, and filled up the tiny space, beating against the walls. He couldn’t even see Crowley anymore through the suffocating mess of his own feathers and limbs.

Then he heard a voice, and immediately stilled. The demon who’d been torturing Crowley was talking. Aziraphale put his wings away and watched, listening intently.

“...can make it all stop,” the demon was cooing, stroking his fingers down Crowley’s back. “You know what to do. You don’t have to feel this anymore. All it takes is one simple choice.” He twirled a finger in Crowley’s hair even as Crowley jerked away from his touch.

“Never.”

“Now, be reasonable,” the tall demon said, continuing to toy with Crowley’s curls. “You shouldn’t have to bear all this alone. It takes two, as the humans like to say. Didn’t your lover boy get you into this mess? Shouldn’t he share some of the consequences?”

Crowley turned his face down, pressing it into the stone slab. “Fuck off,” he mumbled.

The tormentor, as Aziraphale was now calling him in his mind, seemed like he was getting annoyed.

“Come on. You’re a demon, for anyone’s sake. You were meant to be the one up here, wielding the whips. Not suffering like this.” He rattled the chain in his hands as if to punctuate his statement. “You might be surprised how much you like it. How good it’ll feel, having some power back.”

The tormentor ran his hand down Crowley’s back. Aziraphale watched in horror as Crowley stiffened when the hand brushed over his backside and dipped between his thighs.

The tormentor leaned in close to speak into Crowley’s ear.

“Wouldn’t you like to be back on top, hmm? You can always pretend he likes it. Surely you’ve made that stupid angel scream before. I bet he begs real pretty.”

“You shut your mouth,” Crowley spat, his tone nothing but hatred. 

So that was it, Aziraphale realized. They  _ were _ trying to force Crowley to hurt him, the way they were hurting Crowley. His eyes ran with fresh tears. His poor demon. Crowley would never give in, no matter what they did to him. The thought gave Aziraphale no comfort. 

“Please, darling,” he pleaded softly, knowing Crowley couldn’t hear him. “It’s okay. Please…”

Crowley’s cries faded out as the walls turned dark again, and Aziraphale was alone for a moment before there was another wet sliding noise, and the two demons who’d taken him here were standing there.

“Let me see him,” Aziraphale demanded.

“Didn’t you just?” said the smaller one, in mock confusion.

The bigger one just reached in and grabbed Aziraphale, who barely had time to snatch the blanket back from where it had fallen to the floor.

Aziraphale started to fight in earnest now, trying to yank himself out of the demon’s grip. He thrust his wings out, but they only beat helplessly against the walls. The demon held him tightly, looking unconcerned.

“Let me go! You have to let me see him - speak to him! Please, you must!”

Both demons ignored his pleas and struggles, apparently prepared to wait for the angel to exhaust himself or realize the futility of his actions.

And he did, eventually, surrendering in body if not in mind, allowing himself to be bodily carried back to his cell, tossed in with his ragged blanket. It was almost a relief to be back here, without the awful images of Crowley, the crushing helplessness of the tiny booth.

So this was how Hell had decided to torture Aziraphale, without ever laying a hand on him. Clever. Aziraphale would rather take eons of hellfire against his flesh than have to see Crowley suffer, suffer  _ for him _ , and Aziraphale unable to comfort him, unable to stop it.

The next time they came to get him, Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to refuse. He didn’t know if he could take another minute of it. But he had no choice, and he felt an obligation to Crowley to be there if he could, to bear witness. Even if Crowley didn’t know his angel was there, trying in vain to send healing, love, peace, anything to signal his presence, through the barrier to him. He would still be there. It was something. It had to be something.

He wore the blanket tied around his waist these days, or occasionally around his shoulders. He missed his trousers. His shirt. His tie. He missed Crowley. He missed...everything.

Sometimes, Aziraphale kept quiet, holding a silent and invisible vigil for Crowley as he writhed and moaned under the lash, the chain, the fire, whatever other demonic implements Hell had come up with. Other times, he couldn’t contain his fury and hurled himself against the barrier, screaming unheard pleas for mercy, offerings to take Crowley’s place, begging the demon to just give in, to let Aziraphale take some of this from him.

And then there were the things Aziraphale simply could not watch. He told himself it was for Crowley’s dignity, that there were some types of violation Crowley would never want the angel to see. Aziraphale would force his wings into the tight space, smothering his face with feathers, eyes shut, hands held over his ears, though they didn’t block out all the sounds, sounds that couldn’t possibly be Crowley, though they were, his precious demon sounding so broken, the depth of his pain shattering Aziraphale’s heart over and over.

It was far worse than whatever bodily torture that Heaven’s bureaucratic rigidity was supposedly protecting him from.

And every time they came to get him, Aziraphale tried to negotiate, tried to explain to the two stupid guards that he had a bargain for them, that if he could only speak with Beelzebub he could help Hell solve their problem, that he could give them what they wanted. He tried cajoling, he tried providing logical explanations, he tried tempting them with the glory of being the one who cracked the captives, but he might as well have been talking to the walls of his cell. Which he did, as well, mostly to keep himself from losing the last shreds of his sanity.


	9. Locked To Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell's plan is just not working. But they have a few more tricks up their sleeve to try and get Crowley to break.
> 
> (There's a little bit of timeline overlap between the two POVs going forward; I really hope it's not confusing. I messed with it a bunch to try and keep things clear chapter by chapter. Please let me know in the comments if it's not working!)

In an entirely unsurprising turn of events, things got a lot worse for Crowley after his stunt. Corson and his implements of suffering seemed to be as ever-present as Crowley’s own damned skin, the demon endlessly expressing his  _ disappointment _ , which was not quite as convincing as his obvious malicious glee at having a reason to take things to an ever more sadistic place.

In fact, it seemed lately that Corson was playing things up more. He was more talkative, taunting and teasing Crowley. He swaggered around the dungeon, acting showy, almost as if he were performing for an audience. _Probably angling for a promotion,_ Crowley thought. _Figures as much that this asshole is an ambitious sonofabitch. _

This went on for a while, though Crowley had no way of telling just how long. All this time, Corson and the occasional other tormentors stuck to the standard Hellish punishments, wrenching his body through all manner of torment. And Crowley could handle that. He told himself this over and over, as they beat him, as they broke his body. He could handle this. He must. For Aziraphale.

It seemed, unfortunately, that Hell eventually realized this as well. No amount of torture, in this form, would convince Crowley to harm his angel. 

And so they decided to try something else.

Hastur was the one who opened Crowley’s cell door, which struck him as odd. Transporting Crowley from one torture chamber to another was usually the job of a much lower demon, given that Crowley liked to make it as unpleasant as possible, and still had plenty of fight and bite in him. 

Then Crowley saw what Hastur had in his hand.

“No…” he gasped, without thinking. 

Crowley regretted his outburst immediately when he saw a satisfied grin spread over Hastur’s face. “Oh, yes,” he said, clearly relishing in the sight of a new level of fear on the captive’s face.

Crowley crawled away from Hastur, pulling himself into a cower in the far corner of his cell. “Come on, man,” he said, trying to sound casual, and failing. “Let’s talk about this. You don’t need to –“

“No talk,” Hastur said, nearly gleeful as he walked toward Crowley. 

“You – you wanna be the one who finally breaks me? I’ll do it. Hurt him – Aziraphale. Go back to your bosses, tell them you put the fear of Satan into me, and I’ve cracked. Take all the credit. I’ll say you’re the best torture artist this side of the Styx.”

Hastur only shook his head. He knew – and Crowley knew that he knew – that Crowley didn’t mean a word of what he was saying. He was only trying to delay, to sweet-talk his way out of this specific punishment. 

Hastur taunted Crowley, holding out the object, dangling it in front of the terrified demon. 

Crowley knew exactly what that thing was. A  _ retinet. _

On its own, it didn’t look all that frightening. It was a metal plate, about six inches by three inches, bordered on all sides by a fringe of spindly claws. Retinets had always reminded Crowley somewhat of spiders.

That was, if spiders had the capacity to burrow into one’s consciousness and identify the most painful memories, moments of deepest shame, terror, and grief. And then yank them to the surface so that the victim’s experience was only of those moments, excruciating and unending. Amplified, even, by the twisted magic of Hell.

Retinets were a mainstay of Hell’s torture, but only ever used on humans who had the misfortune of arriving there through their own waywardness. Crowley had seen these things reduce the strongest and most stubborn souls to blithering wrecks, and had seen humans endure, even perform, absolute horrors to avoid the threat of retinet torture.

It didn’t make sense to use a retinet on a demon, since they didn’t experience feelings like regret, guilt, self-hatred, or rock-bottom despair. They enjoyed their demonic existences, and psychic suffering wasn’t really in their wheelhouse.

Except for Crowley. And he was pretty sure he knew what past experience the retinet would conjure up and drag him through.

“Listen,” Crowley said, holding a hand up as Hastur advanced on him. 

“Nope,” Hastur said, still clearly thrilling in Crowley’s desperate groveling. He knelt down next to Crowley, who tried to scramble away from him, but he was weakened by the torture, and Hastur easily grabbed the hair at the base of Crowley’s neck, yanking it up and pinning Crowley to the floor, face down. He dropped the retinet right at the point where Crowley’s spine met his skull, and the metal claws dug in, piercing and gripping the demon’s flesh.

***

For a moment, there was nothing. Then Crowley was enveloped in – what was that feeling? Grace. Love. Peace. Where was he? He thought, insanely, that maybe he had died. What was this? It was such a relief after all the misery he’d recently endured. Tears of joy began to fill his eyes.

Then, it was all wrenched away. In an instant there was the sickening sensation of something breaking, like a bone snapping, but it wasn’t a bone, it wasn’t in his body, it was in his soul, but he didn’t have a soul? Not anymore. Loss flooded him, grief like a gaping wound, and still there was that tearing away, the pain of something broken, something mutilated. 

And then he was falling. Cast out, the chill of isolation wrapped around him. He had no one. He was no one. All was lost, all was gone, and there was nothing for him, nothing to him. He heard a wail escaping from his crushed lungs, but it was a sound unheard by any merciful ear.

And then he landed hard, on a stone floor. There was a demon standing over him. Hastur. He looked up, his gaze swimming with tears. “No…” he pleaded. “Not again…”

And then that peace washed over him again, and he screamed in despair. He couldn’t feel that again. Couldn’t experience the ripping away, the fall from love into nothing, into darkness. But he did. It was the same this time, not dulled by time, not a memory weakened by soft returnings and the work of healing. It was happening again, just as powerfully as it had so long ago.

If there was any mercy to a Fall, it was that it could only happen once. He had endured that unbearable thing, and then he began to mend. He made a way for himself. The humans had a saying –  _ time heals all wounds _ – and though no amount of time could ever give Crowley back all that he had lost, it had, as promised, made its absence easier to bear. 

But now, here he was, reliving that moment, again and again, as Hastur laughed distantly above him. Crowley hunched at his feet, hands holding his head, as if he could rip the dreaded memory from himself. He knew better. There was no freedom from a retinet, not until the entity that had placed it chose to remove it.

Again he returned to his cell, to the realization that he was doomed to continue Falling, and again he looked up at Hastur and begged. And again there was a moment of horrible reprieve as his last moments of angelic grace covered him with hope and joy, and then he was sucked into torment like he’d never known before, except he had. 

Finally, Hastur reached down and pulled the retinet off Crowley’s neck, leaving a raw, bloodied patch of skin. He said nothing, only continued chuckling to himself as he left Crowley huddled face down on the floor.

***

He spent the next stretch of time sprawled out on the floor, trying to calm himself, though it seemed there was nothing for it. Memories of Aziraphale, his usual strategy to soothe himself, seemed weak and fuzzy compared to the strength of his memories of Falling. 

Next time, it wasn’t Hastur, but a demon Crowley didn’t recognize. She walked into his cell and knelt down next to him, holding the retinet where his glassy eyes could see it.

“Please…” he rasped.

“Of course,” she said, her tone friendly, and she pocketed the object. “I don’t have to do this. You don’t have to endure this. You know what will make this stop. It’s easy.”

Crowley said nothing. He felt the cruel metal of the retinet attach to the base of his skull, and he wished more than anything that demons could die.

When the first memory loop ended and he found himself back on the floor, gasping for breath and clawing at his neck, he tried again to think of Aziraphale, but all he could think of was the way out that he’d been offered.  _ You know what will make this stop. You can make it all stop. _

Then the memory began to rise again, the terrible existence of this moment being replaced by a far worse one.

He tried to picture himself hurting his angel, tried to imagine his own hands holding Aziraphale down, taking some Hellish implement to his perfect flesh. The thought made him sick.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

But he needed to try something. Anything. He couldn’t endure this much longer. He’d already failed to torture Aziraphale once, and it hadn’t gone well. But this time he knew what was coming. He’d take his chances. He had no other choice.

So when she returned, after what felt like an eternity spent reliving his greatest pain, punctuated by periods of clarity in which he could think only of Aziraphale, Crowley stood up on wobbly legs and looked her in the eye, trying to sound resolute. “No more,” he said. “I’ll do it. Bring me to – give him to me.”

She smiled, glistening fangs behind red lips, and lifted him from the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Retinet" is based on the Latin term retinentia, for "memory" or "remembrance."
> 
> Say hi to me on tumblr at @desperateground!


	10. The Hand At The End Of My Arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under threat of the retinet, Crowley sees Aziraphale again. But Aziraphale knows more than he did the last time the two were together.

“Open up,” she said, and Crowley did, no fight this time, as she settled the gag in. She did not remove the retinet. Crowley felt disoriented, still trying to shake the minutes-old experience of his ancient Fall and readjust to the world around him.

He allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and followed dumbly, finding himself in another chamber, just like all the ones he’d found himself in before, all dark stone and dread-filled air, chains and various torture implements hung on the wall or draped over racks.

The difference was that against one of the walls, his hair and skin bright against the surroundings, was Aziraphale. He was facing the wall, arms chained up above him, and he was nude, just like Crowley.  _ Seems Hell has given up on clothing for everyone, then.  _ Some kind of metal ring inscribed with Hellish script was set tight around Aziraphale’s chest, preventing him from showing, let alone spreading, his wings.

Crowley stood frozen, taking in the terrible sight of his angel, strung up and vulnerable. Then the retinet started up its threat, the memory of his fall once again clouding around the edges of his consciousness.

He took a step forward and it faded.

Aziraphale, hearing the footstep, turned his head. “Crowley!” he shouted, sounding thrilled. “Oh, darling,” the angel continued. “Come here. It’s so good to see you.”

_ How is he still able to sound so chipper, so...friendly? Doesn’t he know what we’re here for? _

Crowley walked toward Aziraphale and felt the retinet silence entirely. Aziraphale leaned back as far as the chains will allow him, turning to look at Crowley, his eyes full of love and pity.

“Crowley, love,” he said. “It’s okay. I know - I know what they’re doing to you. I - I’ve seen it. They make me watch. Oh, Crowley.”

_ He’s seen it? _ Shame and humiliation flooded into Crowley.  _ They make him watch?  _ He thought back over what had been done to him, and the thought of Aziraphale somehow witnessing those moments of absolute degradation, his total breakdown, it’s too much.

He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, no longer looking at Aziraphale, no longer moving toward him. The retinet began to whisper again. Crowley did his best to ignore it.

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale sounded pained, desperate. “Crowley, I know what they’re trying to make you do. And I know that you won’t do it. You’re so strong, you’ve been so strong. I know.”

Crowley’s breath hitched in his chest and he roughly wiped tears from his eyes. 

“I want to tell you, Crowley, my dear, I want - it’s okay. Please, I want you to do it. It’s okay. I want you to. Please.”

Horrified, Crowley took a step back from Aziraphale, which only sped up his pleading.

“It’s okay, darling. I can take it. Take some of it. Please, let me take it for you. From you. It’s not fair. I want to. You don’t have to do this alone. Let me share this. Please. It’s alright.”

Crowley shook his head and continued to back away. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to run to Aziraphale, to hold him, to touch him, but shame and fear kept him back. He didn’t trust himself. Didn’t know whether this was a demonic trick. 

But as he refused, the retinet strengthened its assault on his mind. Crowley felt the first few moments of the memory begin to take shape in his reality.  _ No, not again. Not here. Not now. _

Reaching blindly, he grabbed a tool from a shelf on the wall behind him. Some kind of strap, tinged with hellfire. As soon as his hand closed around it, the retinet stilled, its visions hovering at the edges of his awareness.

He took a stumbling, hesitant step toward Aziraphale. The memory began to recede.

Aziraphale, seeing Crowley approach with the strap, started to speak again. This time it was the sort of patient coo one might use to tempt a frightened dog out of wherever it had backed itself into. 

“That’s it, darling. You can do it. It’s okay. It’s okay. Come on, love. For me. Please.”

The strap felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. He couldn’t do it. Could he?  _ It would end all this pain _ , said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Corson.  _ He’s asking for it. Take a break. You’ve taken all this for him. Let him take some for you. _

No. 

_ NO. _

Crowley turned and hurled the strap against the wall with all the force his battered body could muster. As he did so, he let out a roar of rage and fury, which erupted from him with such strength that he felt parts of the gag snap inside his mouth. He tasted blood as the mangled device stabbed and sliced into him.

And then he wasn’t aware of any of that. He no longer felt the pain in his face, he didn’t hear Aziraphale’s voice calling out to him, he couldn’t feel the dungeon floor under his knees as he collapsed. Because he wasn’t there anymore. He was back in Heaven, instants before his exile, and then he was Falling, again, wretched and worthless, alone and unloved.

***

When Crowley came to, again, Aziraphale was gone, his tongue and lips felt shredded, his neck was bloody and raw where the retinet had been, and there was a very unhappy Corson standing over him.

_ He’s seen it. They make him watch. _

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called. He looked around frantically. “Where are you?”

_ He’s here, somewhere. He can see me _ .

Corson was saying something. He sounded angry. Crowley paid him no attention.

“ANGEL!” Crowley tried to stand, scrabbling about as if he could find Aziraphale near him, somewhere just beyond his reach.

Corson landed a brutal kick to Crowley’s ribs, and he curled in on himself before remembering. 

_ He sees this. I can’t do this to him. I can’t let him see how bad it hurts. _

Crowley looked up and forced a smile. “Feels good, mate,” he coughed. 

“I’m so tired of your games,” Corson spat. He pulled Crowley up from the floor and threw him onto the stone slab, advancing on him with a nasty looking blade in his hand.

“Yes, games. We’re having fun, aren’t we?” Crowley sounded almost manic, still searching the room for where Aziraphale might be watching from. “Love it here, really stellar. Good times.”

“Shut up.” Corson went for Crowley’s face with the knife. Crowley, unshackled for now, dodged away from the blow, taking it in his shoulder instead. 

He gritted his teeth, which hurt terribly - he didn’t even want to think about how much damage that bit had done.  _ For Aziraphale.  _ Face going white, he grinned wildly up at Corson. “Think that hurts, do you?”

Provoked, Corson wrestled Crowley into submission, finally chaining him down, then grabbed his favorite hellfire whip and lit into him with more ferocity than ever before. Crowley willed himself to stay silent. He kept his eyes closed and his face pressed down.  _ Don’t let him see. Don’t let him hear.  _

Crowley’s commitment to silence only challenged Corson, who brought the whip down as if his life depended on drawing a scream out of his victim. Crowley almost -  _ almost _ \- would have preferred the retinet over this agony. Eventually he could not keep his promise to himself; his ravaged body could not hold on. But the first sound that erupted was not a wordless howl, though it soon melted into one.

_ “I LOVE YOU!” _

It was a plea, a sacrifice, a terrible cry of anguish, wrenched not from his tongue but from his very soul.

It was the first time Crowley had said it.


	11. They Will Know Who We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale sweet-talks Hell into sending him in to see Crowley. (Aka: we're finally getting to some comfort after all this hurt!)

Aziraphale didn’t entirely understand what he had just witnessed, but he knew that he hated it. Now, Crowley was curled on the floor, whimpering and holding his head, where it seemed Hell had attached some kind of infernal device.

The door opened, and in walked a demon that Aziraphale recognized immediately. Intimately. Though he didn’t know his name.

_ “You!”  _

The demon turned and looked at the chained angel.

“I - I mean,” Aziraphale said, trying to get a handle on his tone. It was his first opportunity to speak with someone who might understand, and he didn’t have much time to snatch his attention. “I have a proposition for you. A suggestion, if you will. An offer.”

“Oh?” The demon took a step toward him, head cocked skeptically. “And what could you possibly have to offer me?”

“He’s never going to - well, to do what you want him to.” Aziraphale gestured with his neck toward Crowley. “And I know Heaven is getting rather impatient for your plan to succeed. Or fail, more like.”

“Think you know what’s going on, do you?” The demon sneered, but Aziraphale could tell he was interested.

“I know plenty,” Aziraphale said, lifting his chin and holding the demon’s gaze, though his neck was getting rather tired of being twisted around. “More about Crowley than you ever will. And I’m telling you that you need me, if you want to get anywhere with him.”

“Interesting.” The demon appeared to consider him for a bit, then turned toward Crowley’s prone form and lifted him easily. He left without another word to Aziraphale.

When his ever-silent guards came to remove the wing band and take him back to his cell, Aziraphale felt thoroughly defeated.

But then, some brief time later (though ‘brief’ had taken on something of a stretched meaning during all this time in confinement), there was that demon again, Crowley’s tormentor, all broad shoulders and gleaming green eyes, standing in Aziraphale’s doorway.

“Come with me.”

Aziraphale rose, and though he wore only a thin blanket tied around his waist, held himself as if he were dressed in his finest. Straight-backed and trying to suppress a smile of satisfaction, he followed the demon down a hallway, which looked entirely different than the one he was usually taken down.

Then they were in a room, brightly lit - almost fluorescent - with a table in the center. It looked as though everything in the room was made of cheap laminate. Beelzebub was sitting at one end of the table.

“Sit,” buzzed Beelzebub, and both sat down. 

“My colleague Corson tells me you have something you wish to offer us?” The Lord of the Flies sounded skeptical, but curious.

“Yes, er -” Aziraphale paused to clear his throat, then blinked and began again. The lights in the room seared his eyes after so long in the dimness of his cell. “Yes. I’ve gathered the impression that Heaven wishes to see me punished, but only by the hand of the demon Crowley. Is that correct?”

Beelzebub nodded. “Yeah.”

“And I can also conclude, based on the fact that Crowley has done no such thing, that you have not been successful in, shall we say, convincing him to do so?”

“That’s right.” Beelzebub shot a glare across the table to Corson. Both looked annoyed.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, trying not to respond to their attitudes, and to instead present himself as an utterly reasonable and cooperative negotiator. “I would humbly offer my own services. Surely you realize the depth of...care...that Crowley and I have for one another. If this is a matter of gaining his agreement, perhaps it is I who is best equipped.”

“But,” snapped Corson, “if you get in there and ask him to, then it doesn’t really count, does it? That’s not really the point of what we’ve been trying to do here.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, having expected this counterclaim, “but the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it? I know everything - you won’t have me believing that Crowley has freely chosen to harm me. Whatever ‘suffering’ was intended for me by that route, I believe, is a ship that’s passed.” 

Aziraphale could have kicked himself for the overuse of human metaphor, but he had collected so many of them into his idiolect during his millenia on earth, and they slipped out when he was stressed or flustered. 

“Heaven wouldn’t need to know,” grumbled Beelzebub.

“Exactly! I can assure you, I’ve been known to put on quite the show.” Aziraphale smiled now. “If you want enough evidence of success to get Heaven off your back, I’m sure we can work something out.”

Corson’s eyes were narrowed, glaring at Aziraphale with suspicion. “Why, though? Why come to us and offer to help us, against your own kind?”

Aziraphale made a loud derisive noise. “My own kind? No, I don’t consider those in Heaven my  _ kind _ , not anymore. Surely you’re aware that my relation to them is much the same as Crowley’s has been to yours, since, you know.” Aziraphale fluttered his hands. “The whole armageddon thing.”

“Still, though,” Beelzebub said, sounding thoughtful. “Why offer yourself up like this?”

“For him,” Aziraphale said simply. “For a chance to speak with him. Freely. To ease some of his burden.”  _ He’s worth making a deal with the devil _ , Aziraphale wanted to say.  _ Nothing else matters. _

Corson rolled his eyes.

Beelzebub seemed convinced, though, and leaned forward to question Aziraphale further. “What if he still won’t?”

“Oh, I’m sure that once I get to talk to him -”

“I don’t want to sit around watching you two blather at each other,” Beelzebub said. “If it doesn’t work, and quickly, I’m calling it quits on this whole blessed enterprise and sending you back up to Heaven. They can deal with you.”

Dread gripped Aziraphale, but he maintained his outward nonchalance. “Thank you, and I can assure you -”

Beelzebub was no longer listening. They got up from the chair and waved one hand at Corson. “Toss ‘em in together and let me know if anything happens. I wanna watch. Oh, and turn the bindings down on Crowley. Doubt he could give a slug a papercut in the state he’s in.”

Figuring that things had gone about as well as they could have, Aziraphale was feeling pretty good. Corson did not share Aziraphale’s joy. “This better work,” he snarled as he grabbed the angel’s arm and yanked him out of the room. Aziraphale did not think it wise to respond, and just hurried to keep up with the much taller demon without having to be dragged.

Corson took him back to that same awful room, or at least one just like it. And there was Crowley, lying on the floor near the far wall. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale rushed toward him, fully ignoring Corson, who stayed long enough to fiddle with something on the door before slamming it shut. 

“Angel?” Crowley lifted his head, his yellow eyes wide with astonishment. “You...you’re…”

“Hush, darling.” Aziraphale sat down beside Crowley and pulled him into his lap.

Crowley turned his face and nuzzled into Aziraphale’s hand. “You...you were there...you saw…”

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s face, gently tucking the demon’s red curls behind his ear. “Sssh,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here, I’m here. I have you.”

Crowley’s eyes fell shut, and soon Aziraphale felt the familiar rise and fall of his chest that meant the demon was asleep. He didn’t dare shift or move for fear of disturbing Crowley.

Aziraphale didn’t know how long Crowley slept. He didn’t care. All Aziraphale wanted to do was watch Crowley sleep. And this was the first time in who knew how long that Aziraphale was getting everything he wanted.

Corson had clearly changed something about the bindings in the room, because Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s body growing stronger, bit by bit, as he slept. Occasionally the demon shifted in his sleep, curling more tightly against Aziraphale, who just sat and held him, gazing down at the wonder of Crowley’s form.

He traced the shape of Crowley’s lips, slack with sleep. He ran a gentle thumb over the soft seashell of Crowley’s ear. He set his hand inside Crowley’s and felt the demon’s fingers close in tightly around his own. He wrapped his arms around Crowley, leaned down and rested his forehead against Crowley’s skin. The warmth and stillness was perfect. Aziraphale could have held him like that forever. 


	12. Point My Eyes To The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's trapped in a new predicament - one Aziraphale has created. But he can't be angry at the angel. He's just...angry.

Crowley awoke with a strange taste in his mouth. As he tried to place it, he realized it was not a taste, exactly, but the absence of one. This was the first waking in ages that didn’t bring with it the thick, sludgy taste of his own blood.

He opened his eyes. Looking down at him was his beloved, his angel. Aziraphale.

“Wha?” Crowley startled, jerking himself into a sitting position. His body moved quicker, easier, than it had in a long time. “You - how - Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale pulled him into a tight hug. “Oh, Crowley.”

“What are you doing here?” Crowley asked into the softness of the angel’s chest.

“They let me stay with you,” Aziraphale said. “I convinced them.”

“What?” Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale, holding him by the shoulders, looking at him with fear and concern. Getting anything from Hell meant giving up something in return. Crowley knew full well how shrewd and cruel demons were with their deals. If Aziraphale had sweet-talked his way to Crowley, surely he had done so at a great loss. “How?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, growing fidgety and looking around the dungeon room. “They want you to do something -”

“Something I  _ absolutely will not do, _ ” growled Crowley.

“Yes. About that. Well, it seems that it’s very important to them that - that this task, as it were, gets done. I told them that if anyone could get you to do it, it would be me.”

Crowley felt sick. Surely the angel knew he had Crowley wrapped around his divine little finger. Crowley would do anything Aziraphale asked him.  _ So how could he ask this of him? _

“Angel,” Crowley began, but the rest of the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t even know what he meant to say.

“I know, love,” Aziraphale said, rubbing Crowley’s back. “I know.”

Crowley could feel the agreement form between them to drop the issue, despite Aziraphale’s agitation to have it resolved. He closed his eyes and leaned into Aziraphale, and slowly the two settled down together onto the floor, wrapped up in each other, all limbs and love and longing finally fulfilled.

They were both naked, and it occurred to him that this was the first time they had touched like this. The angel was always so maddeningly, so delightfully, covered up in all his fussy layers. And now here they were, stripped of everything but each other.

There was more to the deal, Crowley knew. Some threat hanging over his angel, unspoken for now. His demonic powers were back, muted but present, and he could feel Aziraphale’s energy, humming around him like an aura. There was something there that Crowley knew Aziraphale was not ready to name and which Crowley was not ready to hear; some fear, some urgency, some unshared knowledge.

Aziraphale had risked everything to get back to Crowley. Crowley had endured everything to protect Aziraphale.  _ What had it all been for? Where did they go from here? _

Crowley was reminded of a story the humans told, about a husband and wife who sacrificed their prized possessions to get each other gifts, but the gifts had become worthless after the sacrifices. It had never made sense to him. Humans and their things, their secrets.

But he had his own secrets. His own precious things. His own sacrifices.

Perhaps it all made more sense than he had been willing to admit.

A sharp pain yanked Crowley out of his brooding as Aziraphale’s fingers brushed over the back of his neck, where the retinet’s patch had not fully healed. 

“Ow,” he said with a soft hiss, and Aziraphale pulled his hand away.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Crowley mumbled, reaching up to grab the angel’s hand and set it on the crown of his head. “Just...just there, angel.”

He felt the angel’s fingers rest, tangled in his hair. There was a tension in them, the coiled spring of questions unasked. Crowley just pulled Aziraphale closer and lifted his head, looking into those blue eyes. It was a vision that had sustained him through countless hours of torment. He never wanted to see those eyes creased with pain.  _ Never. _ He’d do whatever it took. Even if he didn’t know what that meant anymore.

“Angel,” Crowley said, hating the way his voice broke the tender silence between them. “What was the deal?”

“Hm?”

“What did you say to the demons? To let you in here?”

“Ah, that. Well. If...if I don’t succeed, if you don’t - if we don’t - if they don’t get what they want, they’ll send me back to Heaven as their prisoner.”

Crowley felt his guts twist in horror.  _ Sweet angel, what have you done? _

Surely this was all part of Hell’s plot. He wouldn’t torture Aziraphale, so they sent Aziraphale in to torture him. Without his knowledge, of course. Aziraphale didn’t know better. All Aziraphale was trying to do was rescue Crowley, not knowing how pointless it was to try and negotiate with the powers of Hell.  _ Stubborn, stupid, lovely angel. _ Didn’t he realize...but it didn’t matter.

What mattered is that the screws were tightening. Crowley had been unwilling to hurt Aziraphale when the alternative was taking the hurt himself. But now, threatened with losing Aziraphale forever, sentencing him to an eternity at the hands of vindictive angels? What choice did he have?

If he’d been between a rock and a hard place before, well, this was so much worse. Between a retinet and a pool of boiling sulphur, maybe. Or two even awfuller things. How stupid had the humans been, making up that phrase, that they couldn’t even think of two bad things? A rock and a  _ hard place _ ? Made no sense.

Aziraphale’s voice interrupted Crowley’s inner ramblings. It sounded timid, hesitant. Apologetic. Crowley hated to hear that tone from his angel. “I’m so sorry, Crowley,” he was saying. “I know this puts you in a terrible position -”

“Please, angel,” Crowley interrupted, not able to hear another word. He clung tightly to Aziraphale but would not look at him. “Please, just...don’t.”

Aziraphale rolled one shoulder off the floor, jostling Crowley slightly, and then let loose his wings. Those white, resplendent wings. He wrapped them around Crowley, encasing them both in feathers and dim filtered light.

“I can’t,” Crowley cried, pressing his face into Aziraphale, his tears falling on radiant wings, where they rested as tiny globes, their edges precise, their centers clear. “I can’t, angel, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.”


	13. Always Alert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley get down to the difficult work of strategizing together. Beelzebub is not stoked about this development.
> 
> (This is a short chapter, but I've left y'all hanging all weekend while I was at a wedding, so hope this tides folks over until I can get another solid writing session in.)

They spent the next few hours in soft silence, snuggled up together. Crowley dozed. Aziraphale thought. But no matter how many different ways he turned the problem over in his mind, he just felt stuck. More trapped than he’d felt in his cell. Pressure, the pressure to figure a way out, came at him on all sides. Beelzebub could come storming in at any minute and rip him away from Crowley. They had to come up with a plan before then.

He wanted to talk things out, but Crowley seemed content to ignore the imminent threat they faced, of their eternal separation and Aziraphale’s condemnation to Heaven’s grasp.

No, that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t ignoring it, and he certainly wasn’t content. More like...he couldn’t force himself to approach the topic. Like touching a hot stove.

Like he knew that more pain was coming, and he was desperate to make the most of this tiny pocket of respite he had. Like that was all he could do. Like he had given up on trying to figure a way out of any future suffering and was just trying to rest and heal whenever he could.

Aziraphale felt terrible. 

It had all seemed like the right call, sitting across from Beelzebub and Corson, saying whatever he needed to say to get into the room with Crowley. To talk to him. Hold him. Help him.

Well, he wasn’t so sure about that last bit. 

Crowley stirred, sitting up and stretching his wings out. “Feel loads better,” he mumbled, sounding confused.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “I’d suppose so. Beelzebub told them to lighten the bindings on you.”

“Still doubt I can miracle us out of here,” he said flatly.

“I wouldn’t advise you try.” Aziraphale shifted upright, so he and Crowley were sitting face to face. “But we can’t just...we have to try something.”

Crowley sighed and rubbed his eyes. Aziraphale hated how defeated the demon seemed. 

Aziraphale did have some ideas, but Crowley was worried about discussing them here. He worried that Hell had eyes and ears everywhere. Having experienced the near-death consequences of his failed escape, Aziraphale was quite sure that they were not being monitored, but he had no desire to tell Crowley about his ill-advised attempt to solve the problem by application of Hellfire to the problem. So far, the demon had not noticed the raised black scar on Aziraphale’s forearm, and he had carefully arranged himself to keep things that way for as long as possible.

So Crowley and Aziraphale curled their wings around each other, creating a cozy little sphere of feathers and limbs, inside which they could put their heads together and whisper. It reminded Aziraphale of the blanket forts young Warlock used to build, spending nights huddled with his flashlight and toys, spinning stories.

Eventually, they emerged with a plan. It was Aziraphale’s plan, and Crowley had stated his objections loud and clear. “You shouldn’t make deals with demons,” he warned, over and over. “It’s too dangerous.”

Aziraphale, however, felt confident that he was better read and a bit more clever than those he intended to negotiate with. 

“Besides,” he’d said, “it’s the best we’ve come up with, and we can’t wait much longer.”

Reluctantly, Crowley agreed. So they both folded their wings away and stood. For a minute, they looked at each other, eons of love and sorrow hanging between them. 

“Now we have to get their attention,” Aziraphale said, by way of a gentle nudge. Crowley rubbed his temples, looking healthier than he the angel had seen him in a while, but just as miserable.

“I hate this,” Crowley said.

“I know, love.” And Aziraphale held out his wrists.

Crowley set manacles around them, his slender fingers shaking. Aziraphale gripped his hand with a friendly strength and, looking into Crowley’s eyes, nodded.

Crowley led him to a large stone in the center of the room and attached the manacles to it. Aziraphale bent over, never letting - no, never  _ forcing _ Crowley to actually move him, always anticipating the demon’s next move. 

The stone was rough, and cool. Crowley’s touch was impossibly soft. Aziraphale suppressed an insane urge to giggle.  _ How on earth had they gotten themselves into this? _ In his six thousand years on earth, he could never have imagined that he’d be naked, chained to a rock in Hell, as Crowley wandered slowly off to find a whip. Certainly it was odder than odd, this life he’d found himself living. Lines of poetry swirled in his mind.  _ Existing’s tricky but to live’s a gift. How strange it is to be anything at all. At lunchtime I bought a huge orange. _

Aziraphale’s powers were entirely muted, but he figured there must be an energy building around the room - Beelzebub had told Corson to call him when things got going, and Crowley’s performance had gotten more antsy as he circled the room. Surely there were plenty of demons watching them now. Aziraphale remembered his many hours spent watching Crowley, an unwilling voyeur to his pain. 

Somewhere behind him, a whip cracked loudly, and the smell of brimstone brought him back to the room. Crowley was staying out of Aziraphale’s line of sight, far away from the stone where he’d chained the angel, but making plenty of fuss. Aziraphale could hear his footfalls, quick and jittery and entirely Crowley.

Another sharp whip noise, and then Crowley’s voice, shouting.

“ _ Oi!  _ You listening? You better be! We want to talk! Get in here, Beelzebub, you flea-bitten son of a nun’s pus!”

Aziraphale fought back another inappropriate smile. He would have preferred a slightly more diplomatic invitation, given the delicacy of the plan, but tact wasn’t ever Crowley’s strength. 

Crowley kept yelling until the door to the dungeon slammed open, and there was Beelzebub, looking exasperated and livid in equal measure. Behind them, at least two dozen rowdy, cheering demons were pressing in. 

_ “What?” _

“Oh, hi,” Crowley said, affecting casual surprise. “We were hoping we could have a little chat.”

Aziraphale lifted his head and looked over at Beelzebub. “I think,” he said calmly, “that we’ve found something to offer that gets everyone out of this predicament. You especially.”

Beelzebub narrowed their dark eyes. Aziraphale watched as the diminutive demon weighed the offer. 

“Alright,” they said, with a roll of their neck and a wave of their hand. “Come with me.”


	14. Never Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take their plan before Beelzebub, hoping that what they have to offer is worth what they're asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also been doing fills for the Good Omens Kink Meme, so check those out (Like A Fern, Unfurling and A Songbird With A New Track) on my profile. If there's a prompt you want me to fill, comment here or send me requests, prompts, art, etc. on tumblr at @desperateground!

Once again, Aziraphale found himself seated in an uncomfortable room, naked, facing Beelzebub and Corson, plus a handful of other demons who stood behind them them. Spectators, he figured. But this time, Crowley was beside him. And that, he told himself, would make all the difference.

Beelzebub rubbed their eyes and glared at Aziraphale and Crowley. “This had better be good.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale began, shifting in his seat and trying to seem at ease. His nudity still bothered him, as did the high stakes of this meeting. “I shall get right to the point. I am prepared to forfeit the protection of Heaven and sign myself into the custody of Hell.”

At this point, a murmur ran through the demons gathered. Crowley stiffened. Aziraphale did his best to ignore it all. 

“If,” he continued, “certain conditions are met.”

Corson laughed dismissively, but Beelzebub held up their hand. “What conditions?”

Aziraphale swallowed. He’d rehearsed these over and over in his head, and aloud a few times with Crowley back in the cell.

“First, the demon Crowley is to be restored all his rights and powers, and freed from captivity. Second, the demon Crowley shall be placed in charge of my own captivity. And third -” Aziraphale cleared his throat and lifted his chin, summoning all his remaining dignity “- I would like some clothing.”

Laughter roared through the room, most notably from Corson. “Why the fuck,” he sneered, “would we do any of that? What’s the point of having an angel if we can’t torture it?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but Crowley beat him to it. “Way I see it, right now, you can’t touch him,  _ and _ you have Heaven breathing down your scaly necks. Why not switch to an arrangement where you  _ still _ can’t touch him, but you get Heaven off your back, save yourselves the embarrassment.”

“It  _ would  _ really piss off the guys upstairs,” Beelzebub said, tenting their fingers in thought, “if we got him. They don’t need to know the other terms.”

“You’re not seriously considering this?” Corson seemed ready to rip someone’s throat out, and it didn’t appear he’d be choosy about whose. “Might as well just send him upstairs!”

“Sending me back is a bit like admitting defeat, isn’t it?” Aziraphale tried to sound pleasant, placating. “I know Gabriel and his crew, and trust me, losing rights to me would do their heads in.”

“Fine feather for your cap, your very own angel,” Crowley teased. “I’d keep it nice and shiny for ya.”

“Shut up,” Beelzebub told him.

Aziraphale was glad to see that Crowley did, in fact, shut his mouth. He glanced at the angel, and Aziraphale tried to convey reassurance in a tiny nod.

Beelzebub was now ignoring Crowley and addressing Aziraphale exclusively. “Corson has a point, though. It’s a hard sell, you losing protection but still out of our reach.”

Corson cut in. “Plus, wouldn’t it really seal the deal if we could send Heaven a few clips of you in our power?” He licked his lips and looked Aziraphale up and down as he emphasized the last few words.

Aziraphale slid his hand onto Crowley’s, under the table. He had expected to have to negotiate down from his starting offer. He just hadn’t discussed his points of flexibility with Crowley. Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand, hard, before speaking. 

“If I were to forfeit my Heavenly protection, I do understand that I would be leaving myself vulnerable to everything that it means to be a prisoner of Hell. We should discuss the precise terms of my surrender.”

Crowley squeezed his hand back, even tighter. Aziraphale silently willed him to stay quiet, knowing it was taking every ounce of Crowley’s self control.

“I think we should just have him, no strings attached,” said Corson, leering at the angel.

“Well then I’m not inclined to sign myself over,” Aziraphale said with a feigned shrug. “You’re welcome to admit defeat and give me up to Heaven.”

To Aziraphale’s relief, Beelzebub did not look willing to call his bluff. 

“Let’s say we put Crowley in charge of you,” Beelzebub said, sounding as if they very much wanted this conversation to be over. “But once a day, someone else gets to-”

Crowley made a strangled, rage-filled noise, and Aziraphale cut in. “With my angelic powers bound as they are, here, daily torture would be difficult to sustain.” It felt bizarre, using the word  _ torture _ so casually when referring to himself, to his own plans and expectations. _ Everything about this was so surreal. _ He held tightly to Crowley’s hand, trying to keep himself anchored and calm.

“Weekly, then,” Corson said, impatient. The gallery of demons standing behind him started to chatter, offering their preferences and suggestions.

“Annually?” Aziraphale asked, hopefully.

The room was buzzing now, demons trying to talk over each other, Corson shouting, Beelzebub miserably trying to get control of the conversation.

Crowley was squirming next to Aziraphale, and he knew it was absolutely destroying Crowley to have to listen as demons worked through a matter-of-fact determination of Aziraphale’s torture. It broke his heart, knowing how much Crowley had endured to protect Aziraphale from Hell’s cruelty, and now he was placing himself at their mercy despite it all.

Of course, Aziraphale didn’t share Crowley’s perspective, didn’t see this deal as invalidating Crowley’s fight. Not at all. Crowley had saved him from so much, had given everything for him, and that was not erased by this bargain they had to make. It would be worth it, so worth it, if it meant Crowley was no longer suffering, if it meant they could be together, even as prisoners of Hell. 

Beelzebub raised both their hands, silencing the room. “The deal is this: You give yourself up to us, and in exchange, we give Crowley back his freedom and powers, but he can’t go back to earth. He’ll be in charge of you as our prisoner. We’ll give you some clothes. And Corson, or whoever else, gets a go at you once a month.”

At this, Corson scowled, Crowley grimaced, and the room dissolved into chaos again, until Beelzebub shouted for quiet. “That’s the deal,” they said, once the other demons had settled down.

Aziraphale nodded. Beelzebub snapped their fingers and a sheet of paper appeared, with the contract written on it in thick black lettering. They slid it across the table.

Crowley leaned in closely, examining the document with suspicion. Back when they discussed this plan, he had warned Aziraphale that demons made deals that included loopholes or tricks, and emphasized that he should be the one to make the final review. 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to stay mute, letting Crowley take up the reins. He watched as Crowley read over the contract, chewing his lip, until he finally looked up. “Says here once a month, but doesn’t say for how long.”

“All day, seems fair,” said Corson, to a chorus of demonic agreement.

Crowley looked ready to lunge across the table at him.

Beelzebub took the contract back and waved their fingers over it. “Three hours. Thirty days. Three being a 'holy number,' and all that.” For the first time, Beelzebub began to appear pleased. They handed it to Aziraphale with a grin. “Sign here.”

Aziraphale held the document with his fingertips.  _ I, the undersigned, Principality Aziraphale, do hereby surrender myself to the custody of Hell and forfeit any rights or claims that Heaven may have to my entity. _ This is what Heaven would see; obviously Beelzebub couldn’t let them know about the rather generous terms under which Aziraphale had signed himself out from under their power. 

Beelzebub held out a fountain pen made of glossy black stone, its dagger-sharp tip dripping with ink. Fear and relief rippled through Aziraphale as he took the pen. His plan had worked, after all. The worst part was that he wouldn’t get to see Michael or Gabriel’s faces when they received this.  _ Boy, this is really going to ruffle their feathers _ . It was a nice thought. 

Crowley was staring at him with apprehension. He found the idea of Aziraphale putting himself at the mercy of Hell in exchange for Crowley’s freedom hateful, but he’d eventually agreed to the plan. Aziraphale felt a wave of sorrow mixed with gratitude at the sight of Crowley’s clenched jaw. He had sacrificed so much, and continued to do so. Aziraphale wished for a brief moment that he was strong enough to simply give himself up to Heaven and set Crowley free, rather than forcing them both into such a painful situation for the sake of each other.  _ Would that be better? _ It didn’t matter. That wasn’t even an option.

Crowley sat tense with held breath as Aziraphale put the pen to the paper and signed his celestial symbol with a steady, resolute hand. 

“That’s it, then.” Aziraphale passed it back. Next to him, Crowley seemed ready to burst out of his skin with anxious energy.

Beelzebub pocketed the contract and then gestured at Crowley, whose clothing suddenly reappeared. “He’s all yours,” they said as they rose from their chair and began to leave. 

Aziraphale stood too, intending to follow Crowley out of the room.

“See you in a month,” Corson said through a predatory smirk. Crowley turned toward the demon with violence in his posture, but Aziraphale took his arm and steered him away.

“It’s done,” he whispered. “It’s done.” And then he fell into Crowley’s arms, deaf to the noise in the room as demons jockeyed for a look at him and lobbed taunts. All he knew was the familiar softness of Crowley’s shirt, and the embrace that covered him as the strength returned to the demon’s fully restored body.


	15. Keeps Me Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale adjust to a new normal after their negotiations with Beelzebub change everything. But they're still prisoners of Hell. Aziraphale is still intent on scheming a way out, while Crowley is focused mostly on making it through each day.
> 
> (Be aware: rape/noncon warning applies for this chapter.)

It was just as Crowley had feared - there was a loophole in the contract, after all. He had been so careful about every line that referred to Aziraphale, had been so focused on protecting the angel from Hell’s machinations, that he had let his own safety slip through the lines of the agreement.

_ Crowley shall be restored to his rights and powers _ . Aziraphale had demanded that Beelzebub provide Crowley with the same status he’d had before he was captured as a traitor, and Beelzebub had certainly done that, thus fulfilling the condition.

But there was nothing that prevented Beelzebub from turning around and promoting every other demon in their corner of Hell, which he did immediately. This ensured that Crowley’s “rights and powers” were utterly useless and he was left vulnerable, lower in status and ability than anyone else he came in contact with. And every denizen of the underworld took great glee in this arrangement, reminding Crowley that he was still a prisoner, still at their mercy. Never safe.

Crowley hadn’t said anything to Aziraphale about this development, not wanting to worry the angel. He would feel so guilty, Crowley knew, if he thought his plan had failed by leaving Crowley unprotected. No, Crowley would manage this on his own.

That’s not to say he didn’t hate it, every time he had to leave the little room he kept for Aziraphale. He would have preferred to stay there for the rest of eternity, carving out some kind of life with his angel and the comforts they’d collected there. Since he was in charge of Aziraphale’s captivity, he'd done his best to care for the angel with the limited means Hell offered. This arrangement, whereby Aziraphale was technically his prisoner, was a fact he was carefully avoiding, as if it ran like an electric rail through his brain, through his every interaction with Aziraphale. Neither of them had mentioned it in the seven days since the contract had been signed. Nor did they discuss the other terms under which they were both living, though the ticking clock, counting down to a time when Aziraphale was no longer Crowley's to protect, rang loudly in Crowley's brain no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

Regardless, he’d been able to set up a facsimile of coziness for Aziraphale. There was a chair Crowley had scrounged from an abandoned office and fluffed up as best as he could. It would have looked a fright in the bookstore, but it was the best he could find, given that it had any upholstery at all. A rug, ripped from some rotting carpet and set upside down so that its rougher-but-cleaner side faced up. Little touches like that. Aziraphale thanked him for each one, making quite a show of enjoying them.

Though Crowley loathed the room and everything it represented, at least he was safe there, and he was with Aziraphale, and that was enough, these days. He spent as much time there as possible, cuddled up with Aziraphale in the too-small chair, or lying on the floor together, limbs tangled, fingers tracing secret symbols on each other’s skin. Crowley told himself that these nonsense swoops and swirls of love stood in opposition to the hateful sigils on the door which kept Aziraphale powerless and trapped. 

But Aziraphale was not willing to settle for “at least it’s better than eternal separation and torture” and continued to insist that more was possible, that there was something to be done, an escape hatch to be found. He had far more hope than Crowley. And he had a plan. Or, at least, the beginnings of one. 

Leave it to Aziraphale to place all his faith (the irony of such existing in his circumstances was not lost on Crowley, though he never pointed it out) in books. He was convinced that somewhere in the annals of Hell there was some clue, some breadcrumb they could follow to freedom. Crowley was skeptical. But since Aziraphale couldn’t leave his room (Crowley would not, could not, call it a cell), it was up to the demon to stalk the halls of Hell, scouring for forgotten, molded-over books that had been shoved into dank corners and forgotten.

Because, of course, Hell didn’t exactly have a library. Crowley imagined that up in Heaven, there was some gaudy, gilded, high-ceilinged monstrosity of shelves stretching to the sky. Everything would be painstakingly organized, and it would be a simple matter of searching for “angels in Hell,” or whatever, and finding everything ever written on the subject. No doubt this was what Aziraphale pictured when he sent Crowley on this wild goose chase. As it stood, Crowley had encountered far more geese than books, the former being quite beloved and welcome in Hell; the latter, not so much. 

Today, he was slinking down an empty hallway, where he believed there were a handful of cavernous rooms being used for storage. If his memory was correct, there were some desks crammed in there, where he hoped to find a book or two rotting away. Crowley cringed at how he must look, creeping like a mouse between holes, checking each corner before he turned. The nervous, darting motions of a prey creature. Which was what he was. 

Not that it mattered, anyway. Even if he saw someone, he couldn’t usually do much about it. His best bet was going unseen. Crowley did his best to stay hidden, to lurk around in shadows, to stick to less trafficked areas. Because once he got caught, escape was unlikely, and defense a complete nonstarter. So when he stepped into a wider section of the corridor that led to the storage and found Hastur, his heart fell into his gut.

“Long time, haven’t seen ya,” Hastur said, advancing on Crowley. “Heard you been sniffing around, looking for treats to bring your pet.”

“You jealous?” Crowley stepped backwards, a useless maneuver. “I could always lock you up too, if you like. But I prefer my pets less sin-ugly.”

Hastur was within reach, now, and he jumped at Crowley. Startled, Crowley reverted to a habit formed over millennia. He opened his mouth to hiss and bite, intending to transform into a giant snake - but, of course, he couldn’t. Pain shot through his skull where his missing fangs would be and his head jerked backwards as if he’d been struck in the mouth. Hastur was laughing. 

“Always wanted a pet snake,” Hastur said, putting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and forcing him to his knees. Weakened from the reverberating failure of his transformation, all he could do was follow the pressure and collapse.

Hastur shoved a finger in Crowley’s mouth, poking at the scarred-over tissue and the gnarled remnants of fangs. “Can’t even do that anymore, though, can ya?” Hastur’s hand was rough, possessive. “Bet that hurt, too.”

Crowley yanked his head away, but Hastur held him fast with a hand firmly on the back of his head. Crowley had cut his hair as short as possible -  _ just too short to make a fistful _ \- as soon as he could, and kept it that way, but it didn’t do much, now that everyone here was so much stronger than him. 

“Nothing you can do now,” Hastur said. “Not since Beez promoted everyone. Real nice of you and your boyfriend, getting me that lordship.”

Crowley glared up at Hastur, not bothering to reply. He didn’t think he could stand to hear his own voice gagging around Hastur’s nasty fingers. 

“You’ve been Corson’s pet for a while,” Hastur said. He withdrew his hand. Crowley spat theatrically. “Think it’s my turn, yeah?”

Hastur’s hand went to the zipper on his pants, and Crowley clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together. There was nothing for it, though, and Hastur forced his mouth open, shoving himself down Crowley’s throat as the weaker demon choked and beat vainly against Hastur’s legs. Crowley closed his eyes and commanded himself to endure.  _ Easier said than done, that. _ Resistance would only tire him out and give Hastur what he wanted, but between the stench and the humiliation and his body’s insistence on air despite not technically needing it, Crowley couldn’t help but fight, which only added to the misery as his knees bruised against the floor and Hastur sniggered down at him.

Finally, Hastur finished and let go, leaving Crowley on his hands and knees, shaking and retching. He buttoned his trousers and delivered a few kicks to Crowley’s ribs before apparently becoming satisfied enough to wander off. 

Crowley let himself lay on the floor for a bit, curled behind a desk, drowning in self-pity.

Slowly, he set himself back together. He would not bring this to Aziraphale. Crowley stood up, taking silent inventory of his injuries - mostly bruised ribs and a sore jaw. He could heal himself, but it was draining, given that every wound was inflicted by demons much stronger than him. His mouth throbbed where Hastur had abused the tender stumps. For a while, he had hoped that once his powers were restored, his fangs would grow back, or he’d otherwise be able to return to his snake form, but it seemed that ability had been taken forever.

Glancing around, Crowley began to open the desk drawers, as silently as possible, rubbing his cheek with his other hand. Might as well get what he came for. In one, he found a handful of soggy pamphlets endorsing a 100-hour workweek, and one chewed up pencil, which he dropped on the floor with a disgusted noise. He stuck the pamphlets in his pocket. They were completely irrelevant, but he couldn’t go back empty handed. Not after all that. Aziraphale could use them to write on. Or he’d find some other way to use them. Seemed he cherished anything Crowley brought him these days. Crowley couldn’t tell whether the angel was humoring him, or whether his time spent in Hell had reduced him to genuine excitement over anything even resembling a book.

It was a balancing act, staying out long enough to get himself plausibly healed in body and spirit, but not so long that he risked another encounter. Crowley waited until he could no longer stand it, then snuck back along a trusted route. Clearly, he still looked haggard, because Aziraphale’s bright smile at the demon’s reappearance was quickly replaced by a look of concern and an “Oh, dear.”

“S’fine,” Crowley said, doing his best to sound chipper. Aziraphale was sitting in his chair, as he almost always was, looking like he hadn’t moved since Crowley left him. He wore a white Oxford shirt and plain brown trousers; the compromise Hell had made when providing the clothing called for by the contract.

Crowley strode over to straddle Aziraphale’s lap, wrapping his legs around him in the chair. Draped over Aziraphale like this, Crowley ensured that the angel couldn’t see the dark circles under his eyes, the pale sheen of fear he hadn’t been able to shake during his walk home.

“Look what I found for you,” he said, leaning back so he could reach inside his pocket and smiling as he produced a handful of pamphlets.

Aziraphale took them and his expression lit up again as he felt the heavy cardstock, made even plusher by the moisture they’d absorbed. “Lovely,” he said, and Crowley marvelled at the total absence of sarcasm in his voice. 

“Not as lovely as you,” Crowley murmured, kissing the top of Aziraphale’s head, losing himself in the softness of the curls. Here, he was safe. Here, nothing could touch him. Here, in this tiny world they’d made together, it was all okay. He repeated these assurances to himself, willing them to be true.

Aziraphale dropped the pamphlets to the floor and held Crowley, rocking their bodies back and forth. Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s hair and soaked in the scent of him, trying to forget the storage room, the foul taste of Hastur in his mouth, the suffocating shame and helplessness. 

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, rubbing Crowley’s back. “I know you hate it, going out there. But I do think we’ll find something. We’ll get out of here, I promise.”

Crowley wished he could believe Aziraphale. But for now, the angel would have to hold hope for both of them. All he could do was nod and let himself be held.


	16. What We Defend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The countdown to Aziraphale's 30-day compromise continues. Hell finds another loophole to make this even more agonizing. Crowley is straight up not having a good time.

Crowley took some pride in remaining the most clever denizen of Hell, though he had to admit that wasn’t a very high bar to clear. Despite the fact that every single demon was now more powerful than Crowley, they were still as dense as ever. 

Which is why it took the entirety of Beelzebub’s dominion over two weeks to figure out how to make their next move. 

Since there was no bed in Aziraphale’s new living quarters, Crowley had taken to sleeping stretched out on the floor, his head in Aziraphale’s lap, as the angel read. When he woke on the morning of the fifteenth day, he noticed a new tension in the room, in Aziraphale.

“Dear,” Aziraphale said apprehensively as Crowley began to stir.

“What? What is it?” Crowley was fully awake now, coiled and alert. 

“It’s nothing, really,” Aziraphale said, laying a hand on Crowley’s chest. “It’s fine.”

“What, angel?” Sensing that Aziraphale was trying to keep him from seeing something made Crowley absolutely determined to see it. He slid out from under Aziraphale’s hand and stood up.

There, on the door, was a giant countdown clock, made of what looked like black plastic flaps like those in old train stations. It read 15:06 - six hours into the fifteenth day. 

“No,” growled Crowley, and he strode to the door, slamming his hand into the clock. Nothing happened. It wasn’t real; wasn’t physical, at least. “They can’t - they can’t do this.”

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, standing up and moving to embrace him. “Don’t pay it any mind.”

“It’s MY room!” Crowley screamed, not liking the way Aziraphale stepped back from him, but unable to control himself. He pounded on the clock again. “Mine - ours! They can’t!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale was saying, but the demon ignored him and flung open the door, snarling in rage. 

There he saw it: the clock was visible on _ every _ door, and even some stretches of the wall. At that moment, it flipped over to 15:07, and the clacking noise echoed through the halls. A tittering laugh came from somewhere. Surely everyone was appreciating this fun little countdown to the day they got their filthy hands on a genuine angel. 

_ Of course. _ Crowley had authority over Aziraphale’s captivity, but he had no real power over the rest of Hell. Anything Beelzebub and his minions did or decreed for Hell in general also impacted Crowley. So they could influence Aziraphale’s room by doing the same to the whole damned place.

Corson, having heard the commotion, appeared in the hallway looking very pleased. “Like the new decor?” 

Crowley slammed the door shut and returned to Aziraphale, shaking with fury. “I hate this,” he cried as the angel pulled him into a tight hug. 

“We’ll be alright,” Aziraphale said. “It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything.”

Crowley supposed he was right - the clock was ticking, whether or not he managed to put it out of his mind. But this intrusion into their space just felt so cruel, so unfair. _ Because it was_, he reminded himself. _ That’s the whole blasted point_.

“We’ve got to get you out of here,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“We will. We’ll get out of here. We’ll make it through.”

Crowley did not leave the room that day, and Aziraphale didn’t press the matter. They tried to fashion some kind of poster from their collection of various pamphlets and moldy papers, but nothing would hold to the wall. 

They passed the day distracting each other, telling stories from their time on earth, Aziraphale running through a variety of songs he half-knew, Crowley trying shadow puppets on the walls. They rearranged the chair so that it faced away from the door, which made the room look even odder than it already did, but they weren’t exactly going for an interior design award. 

Finally it was evening, and Crowley craved nothing more than sleep. Truth be told, he would have liked to sleep through everything, to escape into dreams and darkness. That felt too much like abandoning Aziraphale, however, so he had forced himself into a routine whereby he spent the days awake and only permitted himself sleep a few hours every night. 

“Would you like to lay down?” Aziraphale had guessed at Crowley’s desire and was settling himself against the wall, furthest from the door, patting his thighs invitingly.

“Don’t have to,” Crowley said, sitting down next to him. “Could stay up and talk more, if you want.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley into his lap. “I think you ought to sleep,” he said, stroking Crowley’s head.

Crowley missed his longer curls, missed the way Aziraphale ran his fingers through them. He’d left his hair as long as possible when he cut it, but it wasn’t the same. He hated how much they’d taken from him, right down to the simple pleasure of hands in his hair. He closed his eyes, letting mind and body relax into sweet sleep.

But then, just as he was falling asleep, there it was: the _ clack _ noise that marked the hourly turnover of the clock.

“Fuck!” Tension gripped him and his eyes shot open.

Aziraphale made shushing noises and resumed his gentle touches. “It’s alright, Crowley.”

“It’s not!” Crowley rubbed tight fists into his eyes, as if he could force the anguish out with enough pressure. “It’s not!”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s words had the tone of an apology.

“I don’t know how you can act like this is all something I can ignore. They’re - they’re going to _ torture _ you, and there’s nothing I can do about it!” Crowley was crying now, his face buried in Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. Crowley heard him sniffle softly.

“I’m sorry, angel.” Crowley sat up, wiping his eyes. “Here you are, the one about to be hurt, and I’m crying over how hard it is on me.”

Aziraphale smiled as if Crowley had just said something foolish. “We’re both being hurt,” he said. “I’m sorry, Crowley, that I’ve made you feel as if you needed to ignore or deny the misery of this all. Perhaps I’ve asked too much of you.”

Crowley shook his head. “No, no, angel. I’m sorry I’ve been such a prat about it all. Here’s you, trying to keep a stiff upper lip and focus on escape, and all I can do is mope.”

“I’d say you have as much a right as anyone,” Aziraphale said. “You’ve certainly been through - well, been through Hell, as it were.”

Crowley looked down at the floor, suddenly shy. They hadn’t actually discussed his own torture since their reunion, having avoided that topic as delicately as the myriad of other ones Crowley had refused to go near. 

“You saw all that, did you?”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his, but didn’t angle for eye contact the way he usually did when Crowley got evasive like this. “Not all, no. But...plenty.”

Horrible memories piled up in Crowley’s mind as he wondered which specific acts, which incidents of brutality and degradation, Aziraphale had witnessed. The tears started to fall again and Crowley did nothing to hold them back. He looked up at Aziraphale, blinking. 

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale held Crowley’s hands tightly and leaned in so that their foreheads touched. “I saw what they did, and of course it was dreadful. But I also saw how brave you were. What you did for me. For us.”

Aziraphale paused, taking a shaky breath, running his thumb over Crowley’s hand.

“You made it through, for me. I’ll make it through, for you. And at the end, I’ll have you to come home to.”

Crowley had no response but more tears. He hated that he was the reason Aziraphale had to ‘make it through’ anything. He hated that Aziraphale called this awful cell “home.” But he loved Aziraphale. And that would have to be enough.


	17. Not Forgotten To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale spends most of his time making lists, scheming about escape options, and tending to a very traumatized Crowley. When the demons find a cruel way to tease Crowley, Aziraphale thinks he might be able to turn it to their advantage.

Aziraphale was happier than he’d been in a long time. He reminded himself of this often, since it was an easy fact to forget. So he had written down a list of good things: He had Crowley. He had clothing. He had some books. 

He kept this list in the pocket of the trousers Hell had given him, and ran his fingers over the folded edges constantly. It was not the only list Aziraphale had made, ever since Crowley brought him a pen. The pen wrote in a horrid dark red color, and it made his hand feel heavy and tired when he used it for too long, but it was a pen. He could write.

Mostly, he wrote lists. They helped. Helped him organize the thoughts that often threatened to get away from him. Helped him pass the endless hours. Aziraphale had written hundreds of lists, in neat, tiny letters down the margins of whatever Hellish publications Crowley could find. He even had a list of the lists he had made.

They included: _ Things I Will Do When We Return To Earth; All Of The Curse Words Crowley Says When The Clock Ticks Every Hour; Pastries I Enjoyed Eating; Naps Crowley Has Taken; Demonic Names I’ve Overheard; _ and _ Books That Would Likely Help, If I Had Them. _

But those were just the frivolous lists, created for their own sake. Aziraphale had a few other lists, more important lists. 

Lists like: _ Facts That May Aid In An Escape _. He kept this one secret, partly so Hell didn’t find it, and partly so Crowley didn’t find it. Because there were a few facts on that list that Crowley didn’t know yet.

Facts like: _ I have a small piece of cursed brimstone embedded in a dark scar on my left forearm._

Crowley hadn’t seen the scar. The time they spent naked together, he was distracted by his own recovery, and then the negotiations with Beelzebub. And then Aziraphale had gotten this shirt, and he had kept his sleeves rolled down, and that was that. 

It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to know. But the demon was so agitated lately, between the clock on the door and the stress of his book-seeking excursions. Aziraphale figured he just didn’t need to added angst of knowing that Aziraphale had almost died by his own hand and spent who-knows-how-long alone and riddled with fever.

When he came up with a way this might help, he’d tell Crowley. He thought that maybe this tiny fragment of Hell was a key, something that could enable him to slip past Hell’s defenses or through a loophole in their labyrinthine bureaucracy. But so far this had been mostly wishful thinking. His powers were entirely shut off by the bindings on him as a prisoner, and as far as Hell was concerned, he was 100% an angel. 

The seventeenth hour of the twenty-first day found Aziraphale staring down at one of his lists, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. He missed his glasses. 

And he missed Crowley. Every 60 minutes, when the clacking noise of the clock rang out, Crowley reacted. These days, usually a subtle tension, a clenched jaw, fidgeting hands - he’d calmed down with the verbal outbursts after a while. So when it clicked to 21:17, Aziraphale looked up, instinctively moving to calm Crowley. But he still hadn’t returned from his day’s mission, and Aziraphale felt his absence like a ringing gong.

In a futile attempt to distract himself, Aziraphale put down the list he had been poring over- one titled _ Biblical Prophecies That May Be Relevant To Our Unfortunate Situation _ \- and picked up one of the books stacked in the room. Most of them were utterly useless, but he kept every single one. Their presence was soothing, even if they contained zero information. He certainly would have appreciated a book called _ Rights Prisoners Under Hell’s Contracts _ or, perhaps, _ How To Outwit Demons And Escape From Hell In 13 Easy Steps _. No such luck.

Aziraphale flipped through a thick, leather-bound volume entitled _ Fallen Follicles: Temptation Opportunities Afforded By Male-Pattern Baldness _, but failed to find anything worth reading. If he’d wanted to seduce a self-conscious middle aged man away from his marriage vows, perhaps he’d be more interested. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall - he did all his work sitting on the floor, since there was no desk. A few deep breaths, and then the thoughts started to press in again, threatening to drag him somewhere he didn’t intend to go, and so he opened his eyes and picked up the list of Biblical prophecies, scanning it for what felt like the billionth time.

His boredom was interrupted moments later by Crowley, who crashed into the room, pale-faced and wild-eyed.

Aziraphale was on his feet in an instant. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Bastards,” Crowley spat. “Nasty fuckers - think that’s funny, do they? Wish it on the lot of them. Would be a sight.”

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said. Crowley wasn’t making any sense. “What is it?”

Crowley pointed a shaking finger out at the hallway. Aziraphale couldn’t leave the room, but he could see out when the door was open. He followed Crowley’s gesture. On the floor, just outside Aziraphale’s cell, was a little mat that said “WELCOME TO PARADISE” in looping script, and for some reason, had an image of two flip-flop sandals. Set on top of the mat was an odd metal object.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Aziraphale said, “but I don’t understand.”

Crowley was pacing around the room, too agitated to answer, occasionally unleashing a string of curses and waving in the general direction of the thing. 

Aziraphale walked over and closed the door. “See? It’s gone now. You’re alright, Crowley.” 

Crowley collapsed into the chair, breathing hard and rubbing the back of his neck. Aziraphale knelt next to him. “What was that? Crowley, what did it mean?”

Crowley shook his head, but Aziraphale pressed, and eventually the story came tumbling out. Once Crowley started to explain, about the retinet and what it had done, it became clear to Aziraphale that he wasn’t the only one who had kept some secrets about his time in Hell. 

_ Would they do that to him? _Aziraphale had never seen Crowley so frightened of anything. The idea that whatever could reduce Crowley to this might be in his own future was perhaps the scariest thing Aziraphale had ever faced. He tried to push that worry out of his mind, though. Right now, Crowley needed him to be brave. He pulled the demon to the floor and held him tightly, willing the shock of the cruel prank, and the pain of revisited memories, to fade.

Crowley eventually lifted his head and smiled. “Did find you this, though,” he said, and reached into his pocket to produce a wrinkled catalog of shoes designed to help demonic wearers resist consecrated ground. “Not sure it’ll help here, but good to know for the next time you get yourself into trouble in a church.”

Aziraphale grinned at the reminder of their old life. He added the catalog to one of the neat stacks piled around the edge of the room, filing it with other pieces of information about Hellish inventions and technology.

And then it hit him. 

“Crowley,” he said. “I think - I’m so sorry, Crowley, but - you should take it.”

“What?”

“The retinet,” Aziraphale said, trying to pretend he didn’t see the way Crowley flinched just at the word. “I think we should keep it.”

“They don’t work on demons,” Crowley said. “I just told you -”

“It would be one less in their inventory,” Aziraphale said, knowing his argument was unconvincing. “Them the fools, handing it to us.”

“Where would we keep it?”

“In here, somewhere.” Aziraphale made a face he hoped looked placating, but felt more like a grimace.

Crowley very clearly hated that idea. Aziraphale hated asking him to do it - to touch the retinet, to bring it into the only safe space the two of them had down here. But it was the first thing approximating a weapon that they’d come across.

“At least you wouldn’t have to step over it again?”

Crowley ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, an anxious habit that only reminded Aziraphale of how much he missed Crowley’s red curls. “They’re dangerous, angel.”

“I know. That’s why I want it.”

Crowley looked at him then, really looked at him, and in those golden eyes Aziraphale saw love, and concern, but now there was also a sheen of awe. _ I’m going to get us out of here _ , Aziraphale tried to communicate with his own eyes. _ I promise. Please trust me. _

“Alright.” Crowley stood. It only took him a few long strides to get to the door. He squared his shoulders and pushed it open, then looked up and down the hallway, confirming that they were alone. Then he snatched the retinet, yanking it back into the room and letting it drop to the floor.

Aziraphale picked it up gingerly, held between two fingertips, and inspected it. Crowley shuddered. 

They spent the next few hours constructing a tower of books in the corner that looked inconspicuous enough, but concealed the retinet behind a few stacks, and covered it with a layer of books balanced on top. Aziraphale loved the way the time flew by as they worked on this project together, arranging the books just so. 

Finally, it was fully ensconced, and no one would ever guess that the books had been placed to hide something. Crowley seemed to relax now that it was trapped in a little fortress. He took his nightly position, stretched out with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Once he was asleep, Aziraphale took out his most important list, the one titled _ Facts That May Aid In An Escape, _ and added one more fact: 

_ We have a retinet. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A retinet is the psychological torture device Hell uses on Crowley in Chapter 9 that forces him to relive his Fall.


	18. I Go Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock ticks down to the final day. Aziraphale has a plan. Crowley does his best.

On the 29th day, the clock gained two more digits, now counting down minutes as well as hours and days. Crowley was, at this point, more annoyed than angry. It felt like the nerves that carried anger through his brain and body were worn out, like he had fully exhausted his ability to feel rage. 

Now he was just tired. And sad. And on edge. He’d been making more and more runs into the depths of Hell, searching for anything that might help get Aziraphale out from under the looming threat. Which meant more encounters with demons. He tried to see it all as a routine, a series of steps each required for the rescue: wake up, snuggle Aziraphale, work up some courage. Step over the garish welcome mat, slip down a hallway, look for books, for tools, for clues. Get assaulted, shake it off, keep going. Find something, smuggle it back to Aziraphale. 

This morning, though, he had no intention of leaving. He would spend every second of the final twenty-four hours here, with Aziraphale. 

Not that it would make any difference. It wasn’t like bodies could bank up comfort and protect themselves from coming pain. Still, he wasn’t going anywhere. They were curled up together on the floor, Aziraphale nuzzled into Crowley, wrapped in the demon’s willowy arms. The clock read 29:09:23. Crowley closed his eyes and waited for the  _ click _ he knew was coming when it struck 29:09:24. 

Eventually, Aziraphale roused from his embrace and sat up, rolling his shoulders. “It really is a spectacular opportunity,” he said.

“What?” Lately, it felt to Crowley like Aziraphale was constantly having conversations inside his own head, and when he did speak out loud, he just dropped Crowley into an already existing train of thought, leaving the demon scrambling to catch up to whatever context Aziraphale hadn’t remembered to share. Captivity was not being kind to the angel. He had the energy of a tiger circling its too-small cage. He read the same book chapters over and over. He spent hours writing down bizarre lists. He had developed an odd nervous tic, rubbing his left forearm so often and so hard that the fabric on the sleeve was beginning to grow sheer. 

“Today - tomorrow - whenever it happens. You know every demon down here’s going to be there.”

“I suppose.” Crowley did not want to think about all the citizens of Hell crowded around to watch Aziraphale be tortured.

“Which means you’ll have free rein of the place.”

“Angel, I -”

“We’ve talked about this, Crowley. It’s not wise for you to be there. Not even sure they’d allow it.”

Aziraphale was right - they had talked about it, at length. Crowley wanted to leverage his position as Aziraphale’s jailer to ensure he was present. He had visions of himself holding Aziraphale, coaching and comforting him through the ordeal. It was unthinkable that he would leave Aziraphale alone to endure.

Aziraphale believed that the contract suspended Crowley’s rights to him for those three hours. He’d insisted that it would do more harm than good, were Crowley to attend. 

Aziraphale continued, “There will be places left unguarded, I’m sure. If there’s anything that can help us, it’s probably in Beelzebub’s office, or somewhere like that. It’s silly, really, not to take advantage.”

Crowley had to admit that the angel was right. As usual. For all his chosen softness, he was created to be a warrior. Strategy over sentiment. Not like Crowley, who fell apart so easily, who felt always at the mercy of his passions. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll get you anything I can. But as soon as the three hours are up, I’ll be back here. For you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was full of relief, of trust, of apprehension, of love.

They did not discuss it again, passing the rest of the day with distractions as best they could. Crowley folded a pamphlet into a crane, though Aziraphale said it looked more like the fat old rooster that had lived in the Dowling’s garden. They played some silly human games with pieces made of crumpled paper, but neither could focus long enough to determine a winner. They lay for a while in heavy silence, broken only by the hard plastic sound that marked every sixty seconds. 

At 30:00:00, the clock switched from black and white to glowing red. An awful energy seemed to fill the place, the ravenous glee of Hell’s citizenry, so long denied.

Aziraphale stood and reached a hand down to lift Crowley from the floor. 

“It’s time,” he said, pointlessly.

Crowley rose and took Aziraphale’s face in his hands, kissing him deeply, dreading the moment he’d have to pull away. 

“I love you,” Crowley said at last.

“I love you,” Aziraphale replied. And then there was a clamoring noise outside the door. Aziraphale locked eyes with Crowley and gave him a small nod. His eyes glimmered with tears, but his jaw was set, resolute. 

Crowley returned the nod, though he was sure his expression was far less stoic. He slipped outside just before the crowd surged down the hallway, led by Corson and Hastur. When he glanced back, Aziraphale was facing the crowd, standing with his shoulders square, hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world like a soldier of Heaven. 


	19. You Will Crawl On My Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of Aziraphale's torture. Hell empties out while all the demons attend the show of the century, which gives Crowley the opportunity to look for something that can help him and Aziraphale escape.

Crowley raced down the halls, heart pounding, skin clammy with sweat. The whole place glowed red as the clock, now counting down 3 hours, flashed on nearly every surface. He did his best to ignore the awful lighting and scanned furiously for the way to the main offices. He hadn’t been this way for a while, since he avoided the more heavily trafficked areas, and everything looked different drenched in neon red.

He found it, though, following a wide hallway plastered with scolding posters. He’d never seen Hell this empty - normally this was a bustling thoroughfare of demons heading to and from Earth and going about other infernal business. The eerie sense of abandonment only reminded him where everyone was. Crowley felt an overwhelming urge to run in the other direction, to run to Aziraphale. How could he be here, looking for books of all things, when he knew what they were doing to his angel? Everything in him screamed that he should be there, fighting, clawing, defending. 

Everything but that small part of him that spoke with Aziraphale’s voice. It pressed him on toward hope, toward action, toward trust.  _ This is fighting _ , he told himself.

He skidded to a stop outside an office he thought was Hastur’s and dashed inside. It was a mess. Hanging on a hook - no, it was a rotted piece of the wall that was hanging down at a 90 degree angle - was a leather satchel, one he thought had belonged to Ligur. He grabbed it and threw it over his shoulder, then slammed through the office, frantically looking for something helpful. 

Nothing in Hastur’s office that Aziraphale would appreciate, though Crowley did steal a little stone carving of a disfigured lizard he knew Hastur prized, having received it as an offering sometime in the 12th century.

He ran next door, not knowing or caring who that room belonged to. The clock told him he had about two hours remaining. He was getting a headache from the glaring red light. In this room, he found two books on the demonic caste system, which he shoved into the satchel. Could be relevant to his predicament, at least. 

He flew through a few more rooms, trying to balance his time-limited search with the need to leave things mostly the way he’d found them. No sense in getting everyone riled up and suspicious. Returning to the hallway, Crowley was about to break into a run again when he ran into a squat, toadish demon. 

“Hey!” the demon shouted, advancing on Crowley, who in that moment had less patience for demonic harassment than he’d ever had in his millennia of existence.

“Oh, get fucked.” Crowley swung the satchel and caught it hard in one bulgy eye. The toad-demon stumbled backwards, croaking indignant curses. Crowley sprinted off, ducking into the first doorway he found, which led to a staircase he scrambled down. At the bottom, he paused, listening for footsteps. Didn’t seem like that demon was following him, though he did hear something else.

Flies.

Was this Beelzebub’s chambers? 

Crowley crept forward. It all certainly looked like his style. Yes, there was the throne Aziraphale had described from his visit. A shudder ran through him, thinking about what had happened here, and what almost happened. 

The clock, which down here was visible everywhere - the stairs and railings of the stairs, the black leather of the throne - marked two hours down.  _ Over halfway done, _ he thought, wishing more than anything that he could be there to say the words.  _ Be strong, angel. _

He spun around wildly, looking for anything that could be a library, an office. Surely as the reigning prince here, Beelzebub would have documentation that described arrangements with Heaven, the rights of prisoners, something.

Crowley pushed through a heavy metal door, its paint peeling. A room that looked like a butcher’s shop held torture implements, hanging from chains and hooks all over. Disgusted, Crowley ran for another door, yanking it open to find a chamber piled with the foulest smelling garbage he’d ever come across, covered in squirming ivory colored maggots. Fighting the urge to vomit, he stumbled back into the main corridor. 

All the red light made his head throb, his eyes burn. His chest heaved with adrenaline. He had to find something. Couldn’t go back empty handed. Not after getting this far. This close. He pressed his hands against his temples, internally commanding himself to  _ get it together! _

There, behind the throne. A narrower door, plainer. He pulled it open. Looked like a storage closet. With file cabinets inside.  _ File cabinets _ ! He opened one beige metal drawer and steadied his hand enough to rifle through the tabs. One said DEALINGS WITH HEAVEN. Another said ARCH/ANGELS IN HELL. Thrilling at his luck, Crowley grabbed everything he could and shoved the files into his satchel. He ransacked every cabinet in there, stuffing the satchel with anything and everything he could find. 

The red numbers flashing inside the closet read 00:22:34. He had less than half an hour to get back. Crowley slammed all the cabinet drawers shut and closed the closet, hoping it would be awhile before anyone noticed the mess he’d left the files in. He took the metal stairs two at a time, checking that the hallway was clear before hurrying back to the room, nearly leaping over the welcome mat. He crammed the satchel under the chair cushion, which didn’t do much to hide it, and only looked lumpy and absurd. Hopefully when they came to return Aziraphale, they’d be too distracted to notice.

When they came to return him. Aziraphale. The clock read 00:12:14. Crowley had absolutely no idea what to do with himself for the next twelve minutes and fourteen seconds. He stood. He sat. He paced. He opened the door and peeked out. He poked at a stack of books with his toe. He closed his eyes and tried to see how long he could go without checking the time. (His record was about seven seconds.)

Aziraphale’s clothing was sitting neatly on a tall stack of books in the corner. Crowley wanted to touch it, to bury his face in it. But the angel had left it all so primly folded, and Crowley knew he’d never get those creases back the right way. He stood and looked at them for a bit, marveling at Aziraphale’s ability to take such care with these things, even in the face of Hell’s worst. 

After what felt like an eternity, he saw the minute section tick to 00, and then there were only sixty seconds left. He balled his fists and willed himself to be still.  _ They’ll take every last second _ , he told himself.  _ It’s not like that door’s going to open in one minute exactly. _ But soon. Soon they would be hauling Aziraphale back down that cursed hallway. 

The clock read 00:00:00, and its red glow faded. Everything went still. Tense. Crowley’s entire body felt like one giant knot. He twisted his fingers together and ground his teeth, staring at the door.

And then, finally, there he was. His angel. When the door opened Crowley barely heard the shouts and jeers of the crowd because there was Aziraphale. Someone dumped him inside and he crumpled on the floor, naked and bloodied, a pile of tattered wings and broken limbs. Crowley was at his side in an instant. 

“Angel, angel, I’m here,” Crowley said, gingerly taking Aziraphale into his lap.

Aziraphale looked up at him through swollen eyes and smiled weakly. “I knew,” he said. He raised one hand as if to touch Crowley, but it wavered in the air, missing the strength to make it to Crowley’s chest. Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand, which felt cool and shaky, and held it tight. “I knew you would be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Some folks were worried in the comments that Az wouldn't survive - I wouldn't do that to y'all! Next chapter is ALL the comfort, I promise.)


	20. What We Defend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tends to Aziraphale using his limited powers. (AKA: some "comfort" to balance out all the "hurt" I just put everyone through.)

Crowley’s joy at having Aziraphale back in his arms was tempered by the sight of the angel so battered. He wished he could simply miracle a big fluffy bed and a warm bath. But the strength of the bindings on this room weighed on him too - one unfortunate side effect of his lovelorn defection. Besides, he had to save his strength for whatever healing he could provide. 

“Oh, angel, what have they done to you?” Crowley murmured, running a gentle hand through Aziraphale’s sweat-soaked hair. The angel started to form a response, but Crowley shushed him. “Was rhetorical, love.” 

“Now,” Crowley said, trying to hold back a flood of tears, “let’s get you sorted.” He remembered all too well how this felt, the hours that dragged on after a session, when everything hurt and there wasn’t even the promise of an end. They were memories Crowley preferred not to revisit, but now he was glad for them, guiding him toward a terrible empathy.

_ The face. _ It was always his face that pained him the most. He laid his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s, holding firmly as the angel winced away. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and focused all of his energy into his fingertips. Healing angels wasn’t exactly in the demon playbook, but since they were Hell-inflicted wounds, Crowley had some jurisdiction. His ears rang and his muscles ached as he forced his muted powers to do something they were never meant for. But it worked. The swelling went down, and a particularly nasty cut along Aziraphale’s brow stopped bleeding. He saw a rush of relief relax Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“A little better?”

“Yeh,” Aziraphale said. He did not sound convincing. It wasn’t at all like the angel to resort to such casual speech, and Crowley knew he was still in plenty of pain. 

Crowley shifted, trying to get a better look at the rest of Aziraphale’s injuries. Between the blood everywhere and the wings strewn where he’d fallen, it wasn’t easy. “Do you think you could put your wings away for now?” 

Aziraphale groaned, and one of his wings twitched. Crowley noticed it sat at an odd angle, and it seemed Aziraphale couldn’t fold it in. 

“Hold on,” Crowley said, gently setting Aziraphale back on the floor and standing up. He took the wing in his hand and slowly, tenderly, bent it into a more natural position. Aziraphale whined and gripped the rough carpet. “Almost there,” Crowley soothed, moving more quickly now, knowing it was better to get it over with. Once he got the wing in place against Aziraphale’s back, the angel shuddered, pulled his other wing in, and then they disappeared.

“Good, good, that’s good.” Crowley knelt down, cradling Aziraphale, who was crying now. Crowley placed a hand flat on his back and directed the last bit of his healing powers toward broken ribs and deeply rent skin. The rest he’d have to handle the old-fashioned way. 

Crowley stood up again and looked around the room for something he could use to patch Aziraphale up. He picked up the leather satchel and dumped out all of its contents, then reached inside. It was lined with some soft fabric - Ligur must have taken this from Earth, demons didn’t make things like this. Crowley ripped the fabric out, ending up with a nice big square of it.

When he looked up from that project, he saw that Aziraphale had used the new burst of strength from Crowley’s healing work to start dragging himself toward the stack of books he was using as a wardrobe, reaching one arm out for his shirt.

“Angel, hey.” Crowley returned to Aziraphale’s side. He took his arm gently and brought it back down, pulling Aziraphale into a more comfortable position. “Try and relax.”

“My...my…” Aziraphale continued to try and reach his clothing. Crowley doubted Aziraphale could even physically get dressed in this state, given the damage to his body. 

“You don’t need your clothes,” Crowley said. “It’s alright. It’s just us here.” Again he took Aziraphale’s hand and drew it back, holding it still. He didn’t want Aziraphale to keep wasting his strength struggling to get to his shirt.

Aziraphale did not seem happy about this. Crowley couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t hard to understand that Aziraphale felt exposed, that he wanted the semblance of safety his clothing provided. But though Crowley’s general instinct was to give Aziraphale anything he wanted, it didn’t seem prudent to give in to whatever pain-addled delusions were driving him. 

“Please, love, just be still.”Aziraphale squirmed, clearly uncomfortable, eyes alternating between unfocused and glaring. Crowley thought back to his darkest moments, wondered how he would have behaved if Aziraphale had been there. Wondering what Aziraphale could have done to ease his suffering. If that was possible. 

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” Crowley picked up the piece of fabric he’d torn from the satchel and ripped it in two, setting one half aside. “But you’ll get your nice shirt all bloody. Can’t have that. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” 

The chatter was calming, or at least distracting, because Aziraphale stopped fussing. Crowley started dabbing at his back with the cloth. The angel hissed through his teeth at every touch, but he tolerated it. Crowley kept talking, a steady patter of reassuring phrases, as he tended to Aziraphale. 

“That’s it, there you go. Gonna be right as rain, soon. I know it hurts. My brave angel. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I’m here. Sshhh.”

After a bit, Crowley stopped and looked over his work. Now that the blood was mostly cleared, he could see that Aziraphale’s skin was a mess of cuts, burns, and bruises. Every muscle was tight and twisted with pain. And Crowley knew from experience that he felt even worse than he looked. Their bodies could take a lot more than a standard human one. The fact that his body wasn’t actively dying didn’t mean much. 

One shoulder looked especially bad, and hadn’t responded to the miracle Crowley focused on any broken bones. He took the remaining fabric and tore it into a few wide strips. Then he took a deep breath. This was not going to be fun.

Crowley leaned over so his head was nearly on the floor. He would have been looking straight into Aziraphale’s eyes, if they weren’t clenched shut. “Angel. Aziraphale. Can you listen?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. “Crowley…”

“Yes, yes. No need to talk. Just listen, can you do that?”

“Uh huh.”

“I need to set your arm. It’s - it’s going to hurt. I’m so sorry, Aziraphale. I don’t want to hurt you. But it’ll help. I promise. Okay?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. He looked scared. Crowley wondered if it might be better to just leave it alone until Aziraphale was a bit more alert. He wasn’t sure either of them could survive it if Aziraphale’s dazed mind associated Crowley with the torture he’d just endured.

But then that soldier’s blaze returned to Aziraphale’s expression. He suddenly looked a lot more like the angel Crowley knew than he had a moment ago. His mouth was still twisted in agony, but his voice was clear. “Okay.”

Crowley repositioned himself so that he kneeling over Aziraphale, wrapped the fabric strips around his hands, and paused. “It’ll be over real quick,” he said. “I promise.”

Aziraphale said nothing, lying rigid under his touch. Crowley steeled himself. And then he wrenched the abused muscle into place, forcing the bone back where it belonged. Aziraphale screamed, a low moaning sound. If heartbreak could kill, Crowley would have discorporated then and there. 

“There, you did it, you’re done, it’s done,” Crowley whispered as he tied the fabric around Aziraphale’s shoulder and arm as a makeshift brace. Then he lay down beside Aziraphale, who was whimpering and biting down on one of his fingers. “I’m so sorry. You were so brave. It’s over. I’ve got you.” 

There was nothing more Crowley could do, not the way things were. All there was for it now was to give it time. Aziraphale would heal on his own powers, though much more slowly than he would without the bindings. Crowley could try another miracle after some sleep.

So he just held on, stroking Aziraphale wherever there was enough unbroken skin, kissing him softly, telling him over and over how incredible he was, how strong, how lovely, how loved. Aziraphale clung to him, and eventually his ragged breathing slowed and started to match Crowley’s. He dozed through the day, though his sleep was restless and fitful. Occasionally he mumbled something, but Crowley never caught what it was.

Crowley spent every moment on the floor making sure Aziraphale was nestled comfortably against him, providing constant reminders of his presence with words and touch. He kept an eye on that shoulder, subtly repositioning the angel’s body as he slept. Though he was glad for the rest Aziraphale was getting, it did worry him a bit, since he knew Aziraphale was never much one for sleep. 

Finally, toward the evening hours, Aziraphale awoke and made to sit up. 

“Whoah, there.” Crowley stopped Aziraphale from putting any weight on his bad arm. “Let me, angel.” He half-lifted Aziraphale into the chair. They looked at each other for a long moment. 

Unable to abide the heavy silence hanging between them, Crowley asked perhaps the stupidest question he’d ever posed. 

“How’re you feeling?”

Aziraphale paused, as if he were carefully considering his answer. 

Then he said, “I’d rather like to get dressed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> Folks have expressed concern about how quickly I get updates out - please be assured I'm not wrecking myself to write this! I love writing this story and I love comments from all of you. Sometimes my life is in a place where I can bang out a few chapters in a weekend; sometimes it's not. 
> 
> I've been so overwhelmed by how sweet and welcoming people here have been and I always love reading people's reactions. Art of this story, or moodboards, playlists, etc. would be MORE THAN WELCOME! As would fic requests - I like working on this story but I've also enjoyed filling prompts from the kink meme. Basically, anything that gets me interacting with more cool people in this fandom is what I crave right now. <3


	21. Can Not Unsee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to settle back in. Crowley tries to take care of him. Neither of them really knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last update for a while; my life is about to become way chaotic for a bit. Hope to be back mid-next week! <3

It took both of them the better part of a half hour to get Aziraphale into his clothing. It seemed that no matter how careful he was, even the slightest movement tugged sickeningly on a fresh cut or whip-lash. He had always taken his corporation for granted, never noticed how complicated it was just to bend his arms back and slide them into shirtsleeves. Now, though, his body protested any motion, and the previously simple action of putting on a shirt felt impossible.

But between Aziraphale’s determination and Crowley’s patience, they made it. It seemed almost as if Crowley had more than two hands as he flitted around, attending to every part of Aziraphale, anticipating every small need. Together, tugging the fabric inch by inch, they got him dressed. Aziraphale slumped in the chair, out of breath and exhausted. Though he was more comfortable now that he was clothed, everything still hurt. Badly.

Crowley stood in front of him, hands in his pockets. “It gets better,” he said with a shrug that indicated he knew his words were useless in the comfort department.

Aziraphale wanted to reply, but no words came. Crowley was speaking from experience - referring to his own knowledge in an attempt to guide Aziraphale through this awful thing. Crowley had endured this, and so much worse. Aziraphale was only at the mercy of the demons for three hours, and he knew his Crowley would be waiting for him after it ended.

Crowley had felt all this, but he had been alone, and with no end in sight. Aziraphale took an account of how much pain he was still in. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be taken again, in this state, everything still raw.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. He could see the way Crowley’s recent ordeal still hung on him, in the new gaunt hollows of his face, the anxious darting of his eyes, the cautious movements that had replaced his casual swagger. The thought of Crowley in the same place he had just been - Aziraphale couldn’t stand it.

“Oh, Crowley,” was all he could say. 

Crowley straightened his spine and smiled, a bit too brightly for it to be genuine. “No, angel, I didn’t mean - it’s fine, I’m fine.” He knelt by Aziraphale, tentatively draping one arm over his legs. Aziraphale wanted Crowley to sit in the chair with him, cuddled up the way they used to, but he had to admit that Crowley was wise not to try, given the state Aziraphale was in.

Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, gazing down at him. Their eyes met, and Crowley’s false smile faded into a more natural one. They sat together, basking in each other’s company.

And then the clock flipped, with a harsh plastic sound. 

Aziraphale jumped. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. It felt as if someone else was there, some demonic presence, come to take him away, to hurt him again. He felt the words more than he heard it, snapping forth from his tongue. “No!”

Then Crowley was standing next to him, drawing him back with soft touches and whispered words. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Aziraphale. I’m here.”

Aziraphale looked around the room, as if he didn’t believe he and Crowley were alone. “What?”

“Nothing’s happening, angel,” Crowley said. “You’re safe.”

Aziraphale shook his head, disoriented. 

Crowley shot the clock a blazingly hateful glance. “Blasted thing.”

Aziraphale stared at the clock. “Fourteen hours and zero minutes,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” Crowley said. “That’s, er, how long it’s been. But you’re safe now, I promise. You’ve - we’ve got time. Plenty of time.”

“Right.” Aziraphale was coming back to himself. The clock ticked every hour. He knew that. No reason to lose his head. He told himself to feel silly. “Right.”

Crowley was looking at him with concern. Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sorry. I thought - I was startled, is all.”

“S’alright,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. Silence hung between them, weighty and sorrowful, until he spoke again. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

Aziraphale considered the question.  _ Did he? _ Perhaps it was prudent. That’s what the humans always said, anyway. That one should talk about things like this. But the thought of it made him feel sick. How would he even find the words? Were there any words for this thing, these things that had happened to him, and to Crowley, and to them, together?

Maybe later. Right now, he didn’t think he could bring himself to revisit any of it, let alone speak it out loud. 

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Crowley seemed relieved. Aziraphale clearly wasn’t the only one who didn’t feel up to a conversation that required them to acknowledge and name their own torture.

As his nerves calmed more, the room came back into focus around him. Loose papers and dusty folders were scattered around on the floor near a torn up leather bag. 

“What’s all this?”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze. “Oh!” he said, sounding happier than he had in a while. “I got you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst...I made a playlist for Repossession: https://desperateground.tumblr.com/post/188282482710/repossession-playlist-with-lyrics


	22. Through The Dirt And The Fallen Debris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley shows Aziraphale the papers he grabbed froom Beelzebub's office, but Aziraphale is too worn out to dive right in. Crowley and Aziraphale continue to have feelings at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know there's not much action/plot in this chapter or the previous one. Lord help me, I just love putting these two together and seeing them comfort and love each other in an awful situation. But I promise next chapter includes a whole lot more Things Happening besides the ineffable husbands having feelings at each other. Please stick with me!)

Crowley held his breath while Aziraphale looked through the loose papers, glancing over their titles.

“Crowley,” he finally said, looking up. “These are magnificent.”

“I don’t know about that,” Crowley said. “I wouldn’t call anything down here magnificent, really.”

Aziraphale smiled, something twinkling in his eyes. “You’re down here.”

“Uh, well.” Crowley picked up one of the folders and pretended to examine it. “That’s not - you know - augh.”

He didn’t know why Aziraphale insisted on saying things like that. After all, wasn’t Crowley the reason he was down here? He was a demon, and now Azirpahale had seen what demons truly were. Where Crowley was from. And hadn’t Aziraphale seen him at his absolute worst, destroyed and degraded, pathetic? How could he still say Crowley was  _ magnificent _ after so much evidence otherwise?

But he didn’t have energy to argue, and Aziraphale was just smiling at him, no trace of irony in his eyes, and all Crowley could do was flail under the enormity of Aziraphale’s love.

Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “so, think there’s anything in there that can help us?”

“I’ll have to see, dear,” Aziraphale said. “But I’m sure there will be. You’ve been so clever, finding this. You did amazing. I know it wasn’t easy.”

_ Yeah, right, _ Crowley thought. W _ hile you were under the lash and the chain and the fire and Satan knows what all else, I was running around grabbing paperwork. I’m the real hero here for sure.  _

He didn’t say any of that, though. Just swallowed hard, mumbled “I’ll let you read, then,” and settled himself on the floor.

Aziraphale usually preferred to read without distraction, and back in the bookshop, Crowley did his best to stay out of the angel’s way - taking long walks, tending to the plants, napping. But the room here was so tiny that all he could do was try not to fidget and pace too much. There was no way he was stepping outside, not today.

So he watched Aziraphale read. It seemed to take him much longer than usual to get through a page. Crowley knew Aziraphale liked to read things carefully, deeply - but he looked like he was struggling to get through every line. His brow wrinkled with concentration in a way Crowley had never seen before.  _ Maybe he really does need those reading glasses? _

Then Crowley noticed the way Aziraphale’s hand quivered as he held the paper in front of his face.  _ He can see just fine. He just can’t focus through all the pain. _

Crowley perched himself on the thin arm of the chair and tried to sound nonchalant. “Want me to read some to you?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. “But you’ve never really been one for-”

“Nah,” Crowley waved his hand. “Just said that.” He reached for the paper in Aziraphale’s hand and the angel gave it up without protest. “Lemme see.”

Crowley squinted at the page. Dense legalese in tiny print.  _ Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. _

But he read it, slowly, and Aziraphale seemed amenable to the pace. He got through three paragraphs about the bureaucratic intricacies regarding prisoner transfer between different dominions of Hell before Aziraphale started rubbing his head and shifting around in his seat.

“You alright?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, dropping his hands. “Just lost you for a moment. Sorry. What was the last sentence?”

Crowley didn’t like that choice of language.  _ Just lost you for a moment _ . He tried to find his place on the page. What was the last sentence he read? He picked a spot at random and started again. Aziraphale didn’t say anything, so he figured he was close.

When he finished, he dropped the paper to the floor. “Shall we call it a night?” 

Aziraphale frowned. His eyes looked tired. He sagged in the chair. “We ought to keep reading, I think.” 

Crowley glanced at the clock, trying to hide the motion. “We have plenty of time, angel. You need some rest.”

Aziraphale bent down to pick another sheet of paper off the floor, then collapsed onto his hands and knees. Bloodstains bloomed on the back of his shirt as freshly healed cuts reopened with the movement.

“Angel!” Crowley tried to lift him up as Aziraphale grabbed some papers, wrinkling them in his fist.

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale said. “It’s all such a mess, isn’t it?”

“It’s - no - it’s fine - just sit back, angel, please.” Crowley eased Aziraphale down into the chair as the angel fussed with the papers, reaching for one that had fallen from his lap. “I’ll get them, stop, just let me.” 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Aziraphale said, once Crowley got him situated and handed him all the papers he’d dropped. 

“What? No,” Crowley said. “You didn’t frighten me. I’m not - it’s this whole place, this situation.” He ran a hand over his face in exasperation. 

“Which is why I’m trying to find us a way out.” Aziraphale sounded frustrated. Crowley tried to calm himself down.

“I know, I know, angel. But you need to heal. It’s no good if we find a way out if you don’t - if we can’t make it.”

Aziraphale’s voice was as hard and cool as Crowley’s was stuttering and flustered. 

“We will make it.”

Crowley sighed. It wasn’t exactly an argument he wanted to lose. 

“Just take it easy with yourself, please.” 

Aziraphale reached out a hand, inviting Crowley back onto the chair with him. “Of course.”

Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand and focused on a tiny healing miracle, all he could manage. Aziraphale exhaled with relief, his hand relaxing in Crowley’s.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Aziraphale said, but even he didn’t sound convinced. Crowley drank in the way the angel’s eyes had softened at the edges, the way his voice sounded less strained. He wished he could do more, so much more, but being able to provide this small bit of comfort was more joy than Crowley had felt in a long time.

“Alright,” Crowley said, grabbing a sheet of paper. “Let’s figure out how to beat these bastards at their own game.”


	23. The Need To Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale look through the stolen files for anything that can help them escape.
> 
> They find something.

They stayed up for hours, quietly reading together, falling into a collaborative rhythm without much talk. Aziraphale swiftly made his way through the stacks of paper, sorting them into piles based on how useful he thought they might be. And Crowley took up anything Aziraphale set in the farthest, smallest pile - what Aziraphale had deemed “highly promising” - to give it a second look.

Crowley didn’t much like reading, but he did like this. _ We’re on our own side_, he remembered saying, and it had never felt more true than here, now. He liked working alongside Aziraphale toward the same goal. He liked the fact that for once, his knowledge of Hell’s inner workings was more helpful than shameful. 

_ Maybe all this time as a demon, the Fall, everything, maybe it will all be worth it if it means I can save him. _

So he read. His eyes fatigued and his mind wandered. But he read. Every hour, the noise of the clock shocked through the comfortable quiet, and Crowley reached out for Aziraphale. He indulged a private smirk at the way Beelzebub and Corson’s cruel plan had backfired. Instead of filling them with terror and helplessness, now that sound signaled comfort. Hell had essentially given them hourly reminders to go to the shelter of each other.

After about four hours of this companionable silence, Crowley became aware of an odd noise. He looked up to see Aziraphale gripping one sheet of paper so tightly that he was crushing it, tears slipping down the angel’s face.

Crowley moved closer to him. He put an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, still careful of his shoulder. The paper was titled _ RECOMMENDED PROTOCOL FOR DEFECTORS & TRAITORS_, and listed progressively crueler methods of torture. 

“It’s just so awful,” Aziraphale murmured, still staring down at the list.

Crowley gently took the paper from Aziraphale’s hand and tossed it somewhere behind them. “Probably not gonna be helpful, that one,” he said.

Aziraphale leaned into him with a weary slump. Crowley wracked his brain for something, anything, that might provide a cheery distraction. But there was nothing. He felt as if he was sinking under the weight of Aziraphale’s pain, of his own grief, as if their memories had finally stacked up high and heavy enough to crush them.

“They did all that…” Aziraphale said dully. “To you.”

“Well, yes,” Crowley said. He couldn't exactly deny it, knowing that Aziraphale had been made to watch. “But I’m free now. You rescued me, you clever thing. And we’ll get you free too.”

He didn’t know if he believed anything he was saying, but he had to say it. Had to try, at least, to mean it. For Aziraphale. He couldn’t let both of them be dragged under. Hell would not defeat them.

Aziraphale picked up another page at random, then dropped it. “They’ll do it again.”

“No.” Crowley spoke more forcefully now, pulling Aziraphale closer to himself. “They won’t.”

Aziraphale had no response. Crowley shifted so that he could lay the angel down, nestled in his lap, and Aziraphale didn’t resist.

“Why don’t we take a break, alright?” He swirled a finger through Aziraphale’s pale curls. “Have a rest, angel. It’ll all be here to read later.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” mumbled Aziraphale.

Crowley had no idea what he was referring to. _ Can’t take a rest? Can’t read more later? Just...can’t? Can’t handle any of it? Sure I don’t blame you. _

“It’s alright,” he soothed. “You don’t have to. Just rest, okay?”

Aziraphale didn’t seem comfortable, and Crowley half expected him to sit up and start arguing that they continue. But he just made a few little exhausted noises before closing his eyes and settling into a restless nap.

Crowley, never one to take his own advice, picked up another page at random and started to scan the headings. _ Nothing, nothing, nothing. _ How Aziraphale could actually read all this, line by line, baffled him. He threw the page into one of Aziraphale’s various “useless” piles (though he had forbade Crowley from calling them that, insisting that everything Crowley had gathered was “excellent” or “quite helpful.”)

He picked his way through a few more pages, with long pauses in between to watch Aziraphale sleep. Despite the brave face he was putting on for his angel, he still felt as trapped as ever, sure that Hell would get the last laugh, and he didn’t know how much longer they’d be able to stay like this. _ I could hold you forever, _ he thought. _ If I could make this last, you know I would. Anything for you. _

But he couldn’t. He was powerless here, bound by the magic of the room, held down by the powers of Hell. _ Useless. I’m so sorry, angel. _

Before his thoughts could grow any darker, he started reading again. Skimming at first, until his eyes lit on something. He told himself not to get his hopes up, but the more he read, the more it felt as if the information on the page was leaping out at him, grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him out of his depressed stupor. 

“Angel! Aziraphale!”

Blue eyes, cloudy with sleep and pain, blinked up at him. 

“I’m so sorry to wake you, but - you have to see this.” 

Aziraphale sat up stiffly, holding his bad shoulder as he did so. “What is it?”

“I don’t know - it might be nothing - here, you read it.” Crowley thrust the page at him.

It broke Crowley’s heart to see the way Aziraphale reached for the spot on his shirt where his glasses would hang before remembering where he was. Those first few moments after waking were so bittersweet, Crowley knew from experience. Sweet reprieve, melting into confusion, then a rough jarring into reality. Like a miniature version of the retinet’s torture. 

Aziraphale was squinting at the page, eyes darting over the paragraph that had caught Crowley’s attention. Then he looked up. “Oh, Crowley!”

“Promising?” Crowley asked, wringing his hands, anxious that he had woken Aziraphale up for nothing, that the glimmer of hope had been a mirage.

“More than promising, dear.” Aziraphale read over another line, his lips moving silently as he reviewed it. “I think this might just be the ticket.”

And then Aziraphale began to read out loud:

_ “It is, at times, necessary for Heaven and Hell to collaborate on matters that concern both Holy and Infernal business. However, arch/angels are reluctant to visit Hell without certain safeguards in place. These safeguards also protect demons who must venture upstairs. _

_ According to the Treaty of Access, on the rare occasion that an arch/angel must enter into Hell for official business, it is mandatory that the Main Entrance, and any other portals to be used by guests, be left open and free of bindings, spells, sigils, or other magics that would inhibit transport into and out of Hell. _

_As such, no prisoner transfer should be attempted during a visit from an arch/angel. The portal should remain well guarded, and only previously approved arch/angels should be allowed in and out, per the terms of the meeting.”_

“So,” Aziraphale said, looking up. “We just have to get some angels down here.”

“And get to the exit,” Crowley continued.

“Right.”

"And get past the guards."

They both were quiet for a moment, thinking.

“I suppose we ought to tackle one problem at a time,” Aziraphale said. _ Always the sensible one. _

“How do we get some angels to arrange a visit?” Crowley asked, trying to keep the sharp edges of doubt out of his voice.

“Well,” Aziraphale said carefully. “Hell does have something they want.”

“You can’t,” Crowley said. If Aziraphale gave himself over to Heaven, they’d never see each other again. Crowley would rather spend eternity in this accursed prison cell than let that happen.

“I’m sure that contract angered them more than a smidgen.”

Crowley wanted to point out the absurdity of Aziraphale using a word like _ smidgen _ under these circumstances, but kept his mouth shut, since it looked like Aziraphale was still thinking.

“If they thought it was a forgery, or that they’d been swindled somehow -”

Crowley couldn’t help it. “_Swindled_?”

Aziraphale gave him a patronizing little smile. Crowley hadn’t seen that look on the angel’s face in forever. He missed this. Crowley made a mental note to tease Aziraphale more. 

“Anyhow,” Aziraphale continued, “if we could send them a message implying that Hell’s custody of me was won under false pretenses, then we could draw them down here. And they’d have to keep the portals open.”

“Then what?” Crowley wanted to be excited. He wanted to believe in Aziraphale. But Hell had made it clear to him, in every way imaginable since his Fall, that they were inescapable. This wasn’t a plan, it was just a diplomatic detail, one he wasn’t even sure Hell abided by. 

Aziraphale looked at him with a conspiratorial grin. There was a small whooshing noise, and his white wings filled the space. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fic rec: Strange Moons by racketghost at https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480787. Absolute poetry.


	24. Soon They Will Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley executes on part one of The Plan.

The clock now read 15:06 - fifteen days and six hours since Aziraphale returned from his three hour ordeal. 

They had spent days plotting things out. There was nothing else to prepare. Nothing more to anticipate. They had done all they could.

It was time to move.

Crowley did not like this plan very much. He could still see too many gaps, too many places it could go wrong. There were still too many unknowns. But the hours kept ticking down, and this was the best they had.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, angel,” Crowley said, fidgeting at the door. 

“Don’t rush,” Aziraphale scolded. “I’m fine here. Take all the time you need.”

Crowley could only nod, swallowing back a thousand arguments, reasons not to go. If things went wrong, this could be the last time he saw Aziraphale.

“I love you,” he said, the words thick and throaty.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said, and pulled Crowley into a quick embrace. “You’ll do fine. I’ll see you soon.”

Crowley sincerely hoped he was right.

That blasted welcome mat was still sitting outside the door, having resisted all of Crowley’s attempts to kick, burn, or move it. He stepped over it, looking up and down the hallway. He hadn’t been out in the corridors of Hell for fifteen days, but it felt like much longer. 

Crowley did his best to affect a saunter, rather than the skittish slinking he usually moved with these days. He needed to look sure of himself, not like a spy behind enemy lines. 

_ Relax, _ he told himself.  _ You’re allowed to be here. Supposed to be, in fact. _

None of that changed the fact that every demon down here was out for his blood, and he was completely unprotected. He hadn’t faced any of them since they’d taken Aziraphale, and he wasn’t sure he could take it if they tried to taunt him about it.

Crowley took a sharp corner and headed down a wide passageway he hadn’t been to before.  _ Should be around here somewhere. _ He opened a door and found himself in a massive room full of cubicles where various lower-status demons were milling around, getting up to whatever infernal business was occupying Hell’s time these days. 

One of them looked up and saw Crowley. “Ay, that’s the one who’s got the angel boyfriend, innit?”

Dozens of demonic eyes turned his way. Crowley shrugged. “Boyfriend’s a funny word for prisoner, I’d say.”

“Nah,” said another demon. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Hear what you like,” Crowley said, unwilling to get into an exchange of insults. “I’m just here for a - a stapler. I’ll be taking that and going.” He reached for a dull black stapler sitting on a desk near him.

“No you ain’t.” The demon it belonged to dropped a slimy hand on top of the stapler. “I don’t have to give you nothing. You’re not above any of us anymore, remember?”

Crowley was too agitated about the plan to be annoyed about the humiliation of being denied office supplies by a cubicle dwelling lunk. 

“Enjoying your new titles, are you then?” He looked around. “Doesn’t seem like they earned you nicer digs, though. Shame.”

Before anyone could answer, Crowley turned on his heel and left, hurrying down the hallway in search of a more promising avenue. He was just about to try a rusted metal door at the end of one corridor when he heard a voice behind him that chilled his blood. 

“Heard you were poking around down here.”

_ Corson _ .  _ Fuck. _

Crowley turned around and saw the wide shoulders, the too-green eyes, the sadist’s smile. Corson was taller than Crowley, taller than a human body should be, and his arms were even longer than they should be. Crowley always thought he looked like a praying mantis, and he never looked more predatory than he did not. 

“Well, I’m not allowed to leave Hell, so I’m not sure where else you’d expect me to be.” Crowley sneered, backing up, but there was nowhere to go, not with the door behind him and Corson blocking the way forward.

“Still mouthy as ever,” Corson said, walking slowly toward Crowley. “I do miss hearing you scream.”

Crowley made a run for it, ducking around Corson’s body and taking off down the hall. Corson caught him by the arm and yanked him around. The bigger demon shoved Crowley against the wall. His laugh, low and deep, rumbled through the halls. Crowley shivered at the sound, and he could tell Corson certainly enjoyed that.

“Just get on with it,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. All he wanted was to get back to Aziraphale. The plan flickered in and out of his mind.  _ I’m sorry, angel. I tried. _

“In a hurry, are we?” Corson grabbed Crowley by his neck and opened the metal door Crowley had been investigating. It was dark inside, and Corson pulled a chain to illuminate one naked lightbulb. They were in some kind of closet, with pipes running through the ceiling.

Corson threw Crowley against a thick pipe that ran vertically from the ceiling to the floor. Pain rang through his head. Crowley didn’t make a move, sprawling on the floor as Corson towered over him, nearly vibrating with latent violence.

_ Just get it over with, just get back to Aziraphale.  _

“I was surprised not to see you at the big show,” Corson said. “Aren’t you curious what we did to your boyfriend?”

_ Okay, so they’re all saying that.  _

Crowley was pretty sure that Aziraphale was not his boyfriend. He knew they had held each other, soothed each other, tended to each other’s battered bodies and minds. They had said “I love you.” But were they boyfriends? Or was this just the same old intimacy of their eons-old friendship, mutating under the duress of their situation? There hadn’t been much time to discuss the specific terms of their relationship, not while they were trying to survive and figure a way out of Hell. 

“Aren’t you?” Corson delivered a heavy kick to Crowley’s chest, and Crowley realized that musing about the state of Aziraphale’s feelings for him was perhaps not the wisest application of his faculties at the moment. 

Crowley said nothing, drawing his arms up to cover his face. What was there to say? He was not curious. Not at all.

Corson sighed, then snapped his fingers and brought chains into being, hanging down from the pipes in the ceiling. “I’ll do you a favor and show you anyway. Give you two lovebirds something to talk about. Aren’t couples supposed to have things in common?”

Corson hauled Crowley up and started to hang him from the chains. “I’ll do everything to you that I did to him. Won’t be as much fun, though. He cries real pretty.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, holding tears back, not wanting to give Corson the satisfaction. But he was sure his anguish was painted all across his face. The last time Crowley had been tortured, the only way he made it through was by telling himself he was taking it all so that Aziraphale didn’t have to. He didn’t think he could bear it, enduring Corson’s brutality while knowing Aziraphale had suffered the same.

Crowley tried a miracle, summoning all of his demonic magics to try and will himself to anywhere but here. Corson put a hand out, palm flat against Crowley’s chest, and Crowley felt his powers drain away. 

“Cute,” Corson said. “But did you forget that I’m so much stronger than you? Angel baby didn’t count on that with his little contract trick.”

Crowley only turned his head away, as if he could avoid Corson’s voice as easily as he could close his eyes.

“I know you think he’s so clever, but he didn’t even think of you. Didn’t protect you. What do you think? Is it that he didn’t realize, or he didn’t care?”

“Shut up,” Crowley muttered.

“What was that? You don’t like me talking about your precious Aziraphale?”

That was too much for Crowley. “You keep his name out of your mouth,” he shouted, twisting in the chains as if he could snap them and attack Corson.

“There’s that fiery spirit I’ve missed,” Corson said with a wicked grin. “Now we can get started.”

***

Corson finally left, apparently having some more interesting torture to attend to. Crowley stayed on the floor, a pile of injuries and ripped clothing and heaving breaths. His desire to return to Aziraphale had drained away, not wanting the angel to see him like this.

And there was still the plan. 

He tried a small miracle and was thrilled when it worked, and his clothes knitted themselves back together. Healing himself would be a bigger challenge, but he’d worry about that later. He hauled himself up and looked around the room Corson had left him in. 

Pipes of varying diameters criss-crossed the walls and the ceiling. Some of them ran all the way through, but other ones stopped a few feet short of one wall or the floor. They almost looked like…

_ No. Couldn’t be that easy.  _

Crowley walked up to one of the pipes and wiped at the thick layer of grime it had accumulated. Underneath, there was an arrow painted on the side, next to what looked like letters.

_ Could it? _

Grimacing, Crowley tugged one sleeve of his shirt up and kept wiping. This one said BEELZEBUB’S QUARTERS. 

Heart pounding, he started cleaning other pipes. One said SATAN: HQ. Another said EARTH DEPOT.

Frenzied now, forgetting the wounds shrieking pain through him, forgetting his fear at Corson’s inevitable return, he scrubbed and scratched and every pipe in the room until he found the one he was looking for.

HEAVEN.

Crowley hoped never to see Corson ever again. But if he did, he would take immense pleasure in informing his torturer that he had, inadvertently, dragged Crowley into the very room he was looking for. The one where he would carry out the plan - Aziraphale’s plan - to lead them to freedom.

Well, it wasn’t exactly the room he was looking for. As far as Crowley knew, Hell’s communication center was located at the far end of the Duke and Baron office cluster. This appeared to be a smaller outpost of the piping system that Hell used to send messages back and forth, and one that had fallen into disuse.

Did they still work? Crowley held his hand under the pipe marked HEAVEN. He felt a strange cool suction. 

He had an odd, fleeting impulse to thank God, then caught himself. If God’s hand was able to move in this, then She had far more to apologize for than take credit for. No, he had done this himself. Found it, fought for it, bled for it. 

Trembling fingers reached into his pocket and drew out a tightly folded slip of paper.

He and Aziraphale had drafted dozens of messages before deciding on the exact wording (Crowley had wrinkled his nose at the word “ruse” before being forced to admit that it was exactly the sort of thing Aziraphale would say). Then Aziraphale had taken another dozen tries to get the handwriting perfect: unmistakably his, but clearly written hurriedly. 

“It’s good that we have so much paper to practice on,” Aziraphale had said, in his insufferably cheerful tone. “All those expeditions of yours, they’ve really been a help.”

_ Here’s hoping, angel.  _

Crowley unfolded the paper, checking for the thousandth time that it was the one he had meant to take. There, in Aziraphale’s neat script, shaky with simulated distress, it read:

“CONTRACT WAS A RUSE STOP PLEASE COME RETRIEVE ME STOP FROM PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE END MESSAGE”

Crowley folded it back, resisted the urge to kiss it (surely tainting it with his demonic essence wouldn’t be helpful), then held it below the pipe. He let go, and heard a soft crinkling noise as it was pulled up into the intricate system.


	25. When You Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale get into the second phase of their escape plan. It goes...okay.

Aziraphale had told Crowley to take as much time as necessary, and it was true that he didn’t want the demon to get himself into trouble by rushing or being careless. But he was feeling like quite the hypocrite now, given just how anxious he was for Crowley to return.

He fussed about the tiny room, straightening stacks of books, tugging the thin upholstery on the chair wrinkle-free, and generally making himself pointlessly busy. Every few seconds he patted the pocket where he had tucked the retinet, ensuring it was still there. He didn’t much like having the thing so close to his skin, but the thought of not having it made him even more nervous.

Aziraphale had never hated the infernal clock on the door more than he did now, as it slowly ticked down the hours of Crowley’s absence. When it hit three hours since he’d left, Aziraphale started to feel sick. 

What if he’d been caught? What if they were done for? All their careful planning, all the love and hope Aziraphale poured in - as if it could do anything here, where his grace was snuffed out, his powers muted. All for nothing. 

Just like his last plan. Aziraphale rubbed at the spot on his arm where the brimstone sat. He’d nearly worn a hole in his sleeve doing that. Couldn’t let that happen, though, since Crowley still hadn’t noticed, still didn’t know, and Aziraphale was determined to keep it that way. 

Well, maybe now it doesn’t matter, the angel thought darkly. Maybe I’ll never get another chance to see him. Maybe this is it. He poked his finger through and ripped at the fabric, scratching at his skin, too frustrated and angry and afraid to control the impulse.

It was sometime in the fourth hour when Crowley slipped back in, and Aziraphale had never known such relief. It was quickly tempered, though, by the sight of Crowley - face bruised, a trickle of blood down one temple, limping. 

“Crowley! What happened!”

Crowley waved a hand. “It’s nothing. You should see the other guy.”

Aziraphale most definitely did not want to see whoever had done this to Crowley. But he didn’t say that. 

“Are you alright? Did - did you get caught?”

"I'm fine, angel. Just a little demon-on-demon scrap. Nothing to do with the plan."

"So - it worked?"

Crowley smiled, a sight Aziraphale cherished more than ever, now. “Sure did. Message sent.” He made a little gesture upwards. “They should be getting it any moment now.”

Aziraphale was thrilled. And anxious. Some small part of him had thought that maybe the best course would be for Crowley to fail, for the message to stay un-relayed. They were okay, here. In their room. Together. 

Now, things were in motion. They stood on new ground, one with far more risk, and so many unknowns.

“So, now what?” Aziraphale felt restless. “Shall we practice the motions a bit more?”

Crowley shrugged. “Best not to, I think. They could be here any minute now.”

“Right.” 

They stared at each other. Aziraphale noticed Crowley was compulsively checking his pocket, too, every few seconds.

“You’ve got it?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yep.” Crowley pulled the little stone carving out of his pocket, did a visual once-over, and stuffed it back in. 

“I still think it’s some kind of toad,” Aziraphale said. It was an argument they’d been having lately, pointless and playful, ever since they’d started messing with the thing Crowley had stolen from Hastur’s office.

“It’s a lizard, angel,” Crowley insisted. “Just a wonky one."

“You don’t see it when it’s - er, when it’s you,” Aziraphale said. 

“Probably best I don’t,” Crowley said, tapping the small lump in his pocket. “Ugly thing.”

“I find it rather adorable,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley rolled his eyes. He was about to say something when the door flew open and Beelzebub, looking angrier than Aziraphale had ever seen them, was screaming.

“YOU TWO! GET OUT HERE. NOW!”

Aziraphale and Crowley shared one last conspiratorial glance. Crowley took Aziraphale’s upper arm, playing at a jailer but feeling more like a lover, and they stepped out into the hall after Beelzebub.

He tried to ignore Crowley’s limping, the tension in the demon’s fingers on his arm. Would this all still work, with Crowley injured? It had to. 

As they walked, Aziraphale ran through his part of the plan over and over. They had talked about it plenty, and run through it in practice, but here it was. Happening. Now. Crowley had pulled his part off, and it was all on Aziraphale for this stage.

Beelzebub led them into a large conference room. There were the archangels: Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, all standing stiffly, looking absolutely furious. Hastur was there too, and Dagon, equally enraged. The amount of aggravation in the room was overwhelming. Aziraphale tried not to revel in it. 

“Care to explain?” Michael asked, holding a folded piece of paper in her fingertips. 

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s arm and gave him a little nudge forward. It was a signal.

Aziraphale made a stumbling lunge for Gabriel, crying out in mock exhilaration. “Oh, Gabriel! You came for me!”

In one swift movement, Aziraphale threw his arms around the archangel like a freed prisoner greeting a rescuer. “It’s been so awful!” Gabriel stepped back, startled by the display of emotion, but Aziraphale was already on him. Quickly, just like they’d practiced, he clapped the retinet onto the back of Gabriel’s neck.

That’s when all Heaven, so to speak, broke loose.

Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t been sure whether a retinet would work on an angel, and Crowley wasn’t willing to test it on Aziraphale. As it turned out, it definitely did something, though not what either of them had expected.

Blinding beams of silver-violet light blasted from behind Gabriel’s head, projecting images onto the conference room walls. There was Gabriel casting an angel out of Heaven during the war; there was Gabriel ignoring a human prayer in favor that would have cost him a few favors; there was Gabriel snapping at an underling. 

“What - what is this?” Gabriel clutched at the retinet, as if to pull it off. His twisting sent the light into the eyes of the other parties in the room, and they cringed away from him. Dagon was screaming something. Hastur and Uriel began scuffling. 

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hand in his.

“RUN,” the demon shouted.

They ran.

Crowley led him down narrow hallways and rickety stairs. They could hear the chaos echoing behind them, as Gabriel raged, Beelzebub shouted commands, and denizens of Hell rushed toward the commotion. Together, they ducked through crowds and skidded around corners. Most demons ignored them, too distracted by whatever was going on to notice that the plump figure in plain clothes wasn’t one of them.

Finally, they reached the section of Hell that Crowley had described: the poorly populated lobby just before the main entrance. 

“Hide here,” Crowley said, directing Aziraphale to a nook made by two concrete pillars that served no purpose beyond adding some brutalist greyness to the area. 

Aziraphale wedged himself as far back as he could and tried to be still. He strained to hear Crowley, who was sauntering up to the handful of demons clustered at the entrance, stationed as guards.

“You’re missing all the fun.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice just how good Crowley was at temptation, when he wanted to be. 

“Ey, you’re the one we’s allowed to have our way with,” said one of them in a wheezy sounding voice. “Seems the fun’s all here then, yeah?”

Aziraphale had no idea what that meant. He did not like the sound of it.

“If you set your sights that low, I guess,” Crowley said. Aziraphale could hear the shrug in his words. “But you know those four angels that just came busting through here? Seems it’s a free for all upstairs.”

Crowley paused, and the faint sound of pandemonium was audible. 

“Might wanna get up there, get yourselves a turn. Not often there’s four genuine archangels here for the taking.”

The guards started arguing amongst themselves, none of them willing to be left behind while they believed there were archangels to be had elsewhere. Crowley suggested they cast lots, and soon they determined who was to stay and guard the entrance. The rest ran off, with Crowley chasing behind as if to join them before peeling off, waiting for them to disappear, and returning to Aziraphale, squeezing into the hiding place with him so that they were pressed together, foreheads nearly touching.

“Ready?” Crowley was breathing hard, but seemed to have been energized by the success of that bit of the mission. 

“Ready.”

“There’s only one left out there,” Crowley said with a head tilt toward the entrance. “Should be easy to fight through.”

“If need be,” Aziraphale said. He intended to show his wings, lift his chin, and walk through as if he had every right. Which he did. Fighting was Plan B. Crowley was always the skeptic.

“Right, then.” Crowley spent a second or two staring into Aziraphale’s eyes, then took the sculpture out of his pocket and set it in his mouth.

In an instant there was a tiny scaled creature on the ground before him, with a round belly and spikes on its head. Aziraphale scooped up the little thing, which was Crowley, and set him on his shoulder. Crowley nestled into his collar, hidden. Aziraphale could feel hard spikes and sharp claws through his shirt. He resisted the urge to reach back and give Crowley a pat.

Aziraphale stepped out from between the pillars and assumed as arch a posture as he could. He held his wings, which he still hated to expose in Hell, and which still ached whenever he tried to move them, out behind him. He made for the exit.

The lone demon guard was sulking against the wall and holding a black wrought-iron spear loosely, tossing it between her hands. “Excuse me,” the guard drawled when she saw Aziraphale approach. “You supposed to be here?”

Aziraphale held himself like Michael would, nose turned up, eyes cool. “Of course not,” he snipped. “I’m an angel. And I’m leaving.”

“Well, er,” said the guard. “Not sure I’m to allow that.”

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale said, affecting impatience. “The portal stays open as long as we’re down here. I’d thank you to let me through.”

The guard stared down Aziraphale with narrowed eyes. “Don’t think I saw you come through earlier. Fact is, you look more like that other angel, the one we’ve got dead to rights.”

Aziraphale didn’t think that’s what the phrase ‘dead to rights’ meant. He did not point this out. 

“We archangels take various shapes,” he said airily. “Which must be very confusing to such as yourself. The fact remains that you must let me pass, now.”

The guard straightened up, holding her spear as if to strike. “Won’t do.”

Aziraphale stepped forward, prepared to fight his way through. The demon swung her spear at Aziraphale, whose soldier’s training did not let him down. He dodged it, feeling Crowley’s claws tighten as he clung on, then swung a hard punch at the guard’s face. It was rare that he used his body for the violence it was built for, but he could not deny how good it felt when the blow landed. 

The guard took a moment to find her footing again, and Aziraphale grabbed the spear from her, tossing it far behind him. She sprinted for it and away from the attacking angel.

Aziraphale, himself the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, was not impressed with the caliber of being Hell was apparently for such positions.

But now there it was, the exit, freedom, open and unguarded, only a few strides away, he was almost there, they were almost there - 

something was grabbing his hair, pulling him backwards, and he thought for a moment it was Crowley, but no, he knew that cruel touch, that stench of burnt flesh and adrenaline.

Corson.

“Not so fucking fast,” Corson snarled. He yanked Aziraphale back into the lobby and threw him down, advancing on him with malice glittering in his emerald eyes.

Then Crowley was there, too, the stone lizard clattering across the floor, Crowley’s form springing into place. “Get away from him,” Crowley growled, standing defensively between Corson and the prone Aziraphale.

“No chance in Hell.” Corson smirked at his own joke, then shoved Crowley and the smaller demon went flying much farther than Aziraphale would have expected from such a hit.

Aziraphale started to inch backwards, away from Corson, but Corson reached out with one freakishly long arm and grabbed him around the ankle. “What a lucky find,” Corson said, tugging Aziraphale closer to himself. “Sweet little angel, all to myself. Don’t even have to share this time.”

Aziraphale could hear Crowley shouting, running toward them. He could feel his own hands scraping against the rough floor, scrabbling to find purchase, trying to get away. And then one hand closed around cool stone, carved in the shape of a lizard-toad, and before he had time to think about it, Aziraphale popped it into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what Mr. Chekov says: if there's a retinet on the demon in the first act, it's gotta be on an archangel in the third act! Or something like that.
> 
> Also: The use of the term "pandemonium" was 100% intentional.
> 
> I realized that my fic tumblr didn't allow for anonymous messages, so sorry to anyone who wanted to send a fic request or kink meme prompt without their name attached! You can now hit me up completely name-free at https://desperateground.tumblr.com/ask


	26. Will Be Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley use everything they've got to try and make it out of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little lizard thing is this guy: https://interactives.dallasnews.com/2018/the-disappearing-horny-toad/images/_lizard-ggb.jpg

The lizard skin was not comfortable. Crowley was still a shifter - that much hadn’t been taken from him, even with his fangs gone - but his true form was a great snake, not this weird little ball of spines that Aziraphale called “adorable.” He felt itchy and cramped.

Crowley did his best to just hold on and be patient. He’d endured much less comfortable circumstances for Aziraphale’s sake, after all.

Aziraphale was walking toward the exit. Crowley was clinging to his shirt with needle-like claws. 

Crowley heard Aziraphale doing his most pompous impression of an archangel. It hadn’t seemed to work, because then there was arguing, now scuffling, then Crowley felt Aziraphale’s body swerving as if in battle. 

Crowley felt pathetic, useless, hiding out while Aziraphale fought. But the rules that kept the portal open so that visiting angels would be allowed free passage didn’t apply to Crowley. He’d been barred from leaving Hell, and he couldn’t be recognized by the guard. He closed his eyes, grateful that this form happened to have eyelids, and hung on tight.

A metallic clattering. A steadying. They were almost through.

Crowley held his breath, waiting to feel the supernatural rush that came with an entrance or exit into Hell. It didn’t come. Instead, he felt Aziraphale’s body jerk back. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes and peeked out from under the collar.

Corson was just behind them, holding Aziraphale by the hair. He threw the angel down and Crowley’s stomach lurched with the fall.

Rage choked him. Crowley spat out the stone, feeling his skin and limbs reappear. He stood between Corson and his angel, ready to fight to the death, knowing his best chance was to delay Corson long enough for Aziraphale to get out.

He hadn’t counted on Corson summoning a massive blast of demonic power, throwing him to the far end of the lobby. The landing left him breathless, his unhealed injuries flaring with agony. Gasping, one arm wrapped around his ribcage, he got to his feet. He saw Aziraphale, on the floor, trying to escape Corson’s grip.

“No! Don’t fucking touch him!” Crowley was screaming, running, his eyes on Aziraphale, but he couldn’t get there fast enough, even pushing his sore legs as hard as they’d go.

And then the angel disappeared. Flickered out of existence. Crowley stopped running, stunned. 

Corson rounded on him, looking just as confused as Crowley and twice as bloodthirsty. Crowley raised his hands, as if there was any mercy to be found here, as if signaling the fact that he also had no idea where Aziraphale had gone would earn him any quarter.

“Guess I’ll have to settle for you again,” Corson said, leering at Crowley as he stalked forward.

He looked at the exit, then back at Corson, now only a few long strides from him.  _ Is there time to run? _ Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going anywhere without Aziraphale. He scanned the huge lobby, looking for the angel. 

_ Where was he? Had he gotten out, somehow? _

Corson was on him then, using one of his freakishly long arms to twist Crowley’s arm behind his back while still facing him. The demon’s other hand was wrapped around Crowley’s throat. 

“Hey!” The demon guard, having retrieved her spear, was coming back towards them now. “What are you doing?”

“Get out of here,” Corson hissed at her.

“I’m the guard,” she said, her voice betraying timidness. She stopped advancing, though she did point her spear at the two demons.

Crowley continued to scan the room for Aziraphale. This was made difficult by the fact that Corson’s chokehold was causing Crowley see spots.

One of those spots appeared to have spikes, and was skittering across Corson’s forehead. 

_ It can’t be. Aziraphale? How?  _

The lizard reached down with one tiny claw and swiped at Corson’s left eye. 

With a roar, Corson let go of Crowley and grabbed at his own face, pressing one hand over his now-bleeding eye. The lizard leapt from Corson’s head onto Crowley, hiding in the tangles of his hair. Crowley felt pinpricks on his scalp as Aziraphale held on tight.

The message was clear: _Run_.

He raced for the exit, willing his battered body to just keep going long enough to make it through, trying to ignore the shrieking protestations from his lungs, his legs, everywhere Corson had touched him.

Then Corson was on him again, crazed with fury, one eye streaming blood, rabid in his attack. Crowley felt the lizard leave his head and launch itself toward Corson. There was Aziraphale, now, his body suddenly between Corson and Crowley. Crowley fell backwards as Aziraphale and Corson grappled, a blur of white wings and green eyes and long limbs and thick fists.

Crowley had just gotten to his feet and was about to join the fray when Aziraphale raised one hand, closed around something small and hard, and brought it down on an exposed hollow of Corson’s neck. Blood sprayed from the wound as Aziraphale forced the object inside, and then Corson was no more, and in his place was a small lizard, writhing in distress on the floor.

At that moment, all the archangels minus Gabriel and a handful of demons crashed through the lobby doors, all of them shouting, many of them armed. 

Crowley made it to Aziraphale and the Corson-creature in two breathless strides. He grabbed the lizard and flung it in the direction of the mob. Corson shifted mid-air, landing on the angels and demons in a heavy pile of elongated arms and flailing legs and spurting blood.

Chaos erupted. Some demons responded by the sudden collision by throwing punches against whoever was nearest. Corson flickered between forms, adding a surreality to the scene as he disappeared and reappeared. Archangels shrieked as demonic blood splashed their skin. Over the noise, Crowley could hear someone screaming “CLOSE IT!  _ CLOSE IT _ !”

Aziraphale and Crowley grabbed each other’s hands, both on the same instinct, and turned toward the exit. 


	27. Each Final Breath I Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley have made it out of Hell, but Crowley took a serious injury in the escape attempt. Now they're fugitives on earth, wanted by both Heaven and Hell, and unable to use their powers without being tracked. And Crowley's corporation isn't doing well.

At that moment, a number of things happened, more or less simultaneously:

The first being that Crowley and Aziraphale threw themselves, still clutching each other’s hands, through the portal that served as the main entrance and exit to Hell.

The second being that the guard threw her black iron spear at the retreating bodies, where it caught Crowley in the side, ripping a gash through his corporation.

And the third being that some demon, most likely Beelzebub, managed to extricate themselves from the fray long enough to shut the portal down, which had the effect of shearing the spear in half and leaving the sharp end to fall with a clatter onto the streets of London. 

This was also where Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves. Crowley held his side in agony, blood oozing from the wound. Aziraphale’s heart was pounding, his mind racing as he worked out what to do next. He grabbed the spear point, unsure what purpose it could serve, but confident that he didn’t want to leave it out for any human to stumble across.

The first order of business was to get far, far away from here. All of Heaven and Hell would surely be on their heels now.

The second order of business was to attend to Crowley, who was growing paler by the second. 

This was made especially difficult by the fact that Aziraphale knew he could not perform any miracles, not now. Nor could Crowley. Their pursuers would be able to track them, and they’d be as good as caught. 

There were two ways to get things done on earth, however. One was miracles, and the other was money. Aziraphale rarely made use of the second method, other than to pay (and tip generously) for the food and wine he enjoyed. This meant he had a significant amount of savings, especially since he had bought a number of war loans during the last century, and made a habit of investing in promising young artists and inventors.

Aziraphale did not know the exchange rate of pounds to angelic magic, but he figured he would soon learn just how far these savings would take him. 

He tried to flag down a taxi, having to restrain himself from using a gentle miracle to get a driver’s attention. This would take some getting used to.

One finally pulled up, and Aziraphale hauled Crowley, now covered in a concerning sheen of cold sweat, into the backseat. The driver glanced back with a worried grimace.

“Hospital, is it, then?”

“No, er,” Aziraphale said, unsure how to explain. He gave the address of the bookshop, instead.

“You sure? Looks like your friend is in a bad way.”

“He’ll be fine. Just to the bookshop, please.”

Crowley was most definitely not fine. He was moaning faintly, rigid against the seat. Aziraphale hated not being able to miracle him some help. “You are, you’re alright,” he said, pressing his hands to Crowley’s side to stanch the bleeding, pulling up memories of his time as a field medic in the many wars he’d seen. 

When the taxi pulled up outside of the bookshop, Aziraphale was already halfway out of the car before it stopped moving. “Could you wait here? I’ll only be a moment.”

The cab driver clearly did not want to be left idling on the street with a dying man in his backseat and no payment. 

“Please,” Aziraphale begged. He gave the driver no more room to argue before dashing inside.

It was fortunate that the door knew better than to stay locked at Aziraphale’s touch, since he couldn’t spare a miracle and certainly didn’t have his key. Once inside, he ransacked the rolltop desk behind the counter, grabbing a slim metal box filled with hundreds of years’ worth of bank documents, investment notes, miscellaneous valuables, and even some of the strange plastic rectangles that the humans were using for currency lately. 

Aziraphale wished he had time to go upstairs and find some clothes, but there could be angels and demons here any minute now - surely, this would be the first place they’d look - and Crowley couldn’t wait. He snatched a coat from the hook by the door as he rushed back to the cab.

The driver raised his eyebrows at the harried Aziraphale as he jumped into the backseat, arms full. “To the hospital, now?” 

Aziraphale didn’t think that wise. “No, no thank you,” he stammered. He took one last look at the bookstore out the window, sure he would never see it again. It occurred to him that a localized miracle here couldn’t hurt much, since they’d be here anyway. Aziraphale laid one hand on Crowley and channeled every last bit of angelic power he had.

It wasn’t much. Crowley’s injuries were even more severe than Aziraphale had thought - there was more going on than the spear wound, though that seemed most pressing. And Aziraphale was exhausted from the escape, not to mention he wasn’t exactly in good standing with Heaven at the moment, which wasn’t helping. 

Still, it dragged Crowley a ways back from discorporation’s door. The demon took a deep rattling breath and shifted slightly.

The driver was glaring at Aziraphale through the rear view mirror. “Where to, sirs?”

“Tadfield, please.” Aziraphale hoped the desperation in his voice was more apparent to the driver than to Crowley.

“Tadfield?” The driver sounded incredulous. “No, I’m sorry, that’s much too-”

“We have the fare!” Aziraphale snapped. “I’ll double it, even. Please!”

If one shredded bit of angelic grace fell into the phrase and softened the driver’s resolve, it wasn’t intentional. 

“Better be good for it,” the driver muttered as he pulled into traffic and headed toward Tadfield.

Aziraphale turned his full attention to Crowley. “Crowley, dearest, stay with me. You must. Look at me, Crowley.”

The demon’s golden eyes were unfocused, staring through the roof of the cab. Now back on earth, his human body was no longer being held together by Hellish influence, and Aziraphale worried that it might not survive.

“Crowley! Crowley, please!” Aziraphale held the demon’s face in his, demanding eye contact. He tried to keep his tone as light as possible, even as tears streamed from his eyes. “Crowley, if you discorporate, you’ll end up back - back there, and then I’d have to come get you, and it’ll be most unpleasant!”

Crowley grimaced, then, and squeezed his eyes shut. His grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened.

“There you are, darling. My fighter.”

They made it the rest of the way like that, the driver zipping as fast as he dared down the highway, Crowley a mess of gritted teeth and clenched fists and waning life, Aziraphale keeping up a constant patter of reassuring nonsense to keep Crowley conscious. 

The sun set, and everyone in the car squinted against the orange-gold rays that flooded the countryside. Eventually the driver flicked his headlights on. They continued on toward Tadfield.

Finally, they made it to the little village, Aziraphale giving clipped directions to Jasmine Cottage, and then they were parked outside. Aziraphale ended up paying the driver more than four times the fare, plus an antique gold pocketwatch, before hauling Crowley into his arms and carrying him to the door, where he pounded and shouted until a bleary-eyed Newton came to the door, followed closely behind by a much livelier looking Anathema.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image of Aziraphale as a wartime medic comes from the amazing series Strange Moons by @racketghost: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480787


	28. My Shadows Are Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets Crowley into the care of Anathema Device, witch. Also Newt is there.

“Come in, come in!” Anathema shepherded them inside as Newt headed back to put some tea on. As Aziraphale stepped over the threshold, carrying Crowley under the iron horseshoe that hung above the cottage, he felt the demon stiffen and tense, clammy hands grasping tightly at Aziraphale’s shirt. 

That couldn’t be good.

“In here, in here.” 

Aziraphale mutely followed Anathema. Within seconds, the witch had Crowley laid out on her kitchen table and was tearing his shirt open to reveal a the gash in his side, a deep wound bordered by blackening skin.

She gasped. “What happened to him?”

“A demon’s spear,” Aziraphale said, holding up the offending weapon. Newt cringed away from it. 

“Not that,” Anathema said, gesturing at Crowley. “What  _ else? _ ”

Covering Crowley was a terrible maze of lash marks, cuts and bruises. It looked nearly as bad as Crowley had when Aziraphale first saw him in Hell, when he was fresh from endless torment.

“I - I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “He said he got into a fight when he was out…” 

Clearly, Crowley hadn’t told Aziraphale the whole story. This wasn’t some fisticuffs between rival demons. And it was obvious that Crowley had used his limited healing powers on the areas he expected Aziraphale to see, leaving his torso and back in awful shape.

“Aziraphale.” Anathema was speaking very slowly now, as if to underline her seriousness. “This is very important. Where was Crowley, when he got hurt?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Hell.”

Newt looked as though he were about to faint.

Anathema ducked into the next room and came back with an armful of books. “I’ve been doing some research of my own,” she said, dropping the books onto an empty chair and flipping through one. “Ever since I heard what happened. I was worried they might come back for you two, after it didn’t work.”

Anathema pointed to a page, and Aziraphale took the book from her. It felt lovely in his hands - heavy binding, plush paper. She pointed to a segment. “Says here that wounds inflicted in Hell, they’re - the word doesn’t translate well, but it mostly means  _ cursed _ . Since bodies don’t die in Hell, they can survive damage that would otherwise kill them. But once outside of Hell, that same body, if the wounds haven’t cured, well…” Anathema paused, swallowed, glanced at Crowley. “It’s not good.”

Aziraphale held the book as if it were a lifeline. “What can we do?”

Anathema started opening cabinets and grabbing various bowls and instruments. The clatter seemed to agitate Crowley, who groaned and kicked feebly against the table.

“We’ll do what we can,” Anathema said, “but he’ll have to fight it. It’s Hell’s way of pulling folks back in. And it’s a strong pull.”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, knowing how much he’d already fought, and hating that he had to ask even more of him. He took Crowley’s hand in his, trying not to worry about how cold it felt, how little strength there was in those slender fingers. 

“He’ll make it. I know he will.”

“What about you?” Anathema’s voice was sharp.

“What?”

“Are you hurt, anywhere?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said with a wave of his hand. “Nothing, really.”

Anathema narrowed her eyes. “Doesn’t matter how big they are. Any injuries sustained in Hell put you at risk.” She looked at Newt and tossed her head in Aziraphale’s direction. “Newt, check him.”

Aziraphale didn’t protest. Newt located some abrasions on Aziraphale’s knuckles, from his tussle with the guard, and a small cut above his eyebrow, from Corson’s attack.

“We’ll tend to those, too. Now sit down.”

Aziraphale made to argue and insist on helping, but he was so tired, and all he really wanted to do was be with Crowley. So he sat in the chair closest to Crowley’s head and ran gentle fingers over Crowley’s face, willing him to stay here, in this corporation. With him.

Behind them, Anathema bustled through the kitchen, filling a kettle with steaming water and tipping vials of what looked like looseleaf teas into a small bowl. She sent Newt out to the garden with instructions to pick three white lilies, a handful of lavender, and seven violet blossoms. 

Inside the kitchen, she climbed onto a stepstool that looked too rickety for Aziraphale’s taste, and he had to hold himself back from a small miracle to steady it. She took down a little stone bowl and matching pestle. When Newt returned with a handful of flowers, Anathema directed him to start crushing them, the mortar and pestle passing seamlessly from her hands to his.

Together, they fell into an easy rhythm, speaking little, communicating with small motions and a practiced familiarity: Anathema making neat slices through a petal, then passing it to Newt to add it to the mixture. Newt gliding out of her way before she even moved toward the stovetop to toss chopped stems into hot oil. Newt taking the kettle off just before it began to shriek, and pouring the water where Anathema directed, a thin layer of clear water bubbling over a plate of leaves.

A lump formed in Aziraphale’s throat as he shifted his attention between the busy couple and Crowley’s almost lifeless face. He thought about their time scouring Hell’s castoff books for escape plans, building a hiding place for the retinet, curled together under their wings, scheming. Talking. Working.

Together.

And, of course, all the time they had before that. Here in this world, a world they had fought to save, and now a world Crowley was fighting to remain in. 

“Stay with me, love,” Aziraphale murmured, barely audible over the hiss of the frying pan and the clatter of utensils behind them. The kitchen filled with a thick, floral steam. The night outside the cottage dragged on, and Aziraphale saw Newt stifle more than one yawn. 

Finally, Anathema was standing at his side, holding a heavy clay bowl. “It’s ready,” she said, and Aziraphale stood to move out of the way, without letting go of Crowley’s hand. With deft hands, she spread the still-warm poultice over the gash in Crowley’s side, covering it with white gauze, then moved on to the numerous other injuries covering his body. Aziraphale didn’t know whether to feel worried or relieved that Crowley wasn’t responding much to the treatment aside from the occasional grimace or gasp.

Aziraphale wondered if he should turn away when she tugged his pants down to tend to the rest of him, then realized how silly the notion was. Hadn’t they seen each other, held each other, in far less...civilized...manners than this? Still, it felt different. Maybe it was Newt’s pinking cheeks, or the businesslike way Anathema was treating Crowley’s nearly-naked body. So Aziraphale just stood there, feeling useless and awkward, holding Crowley’s limp hand between both of his. 

“We should turn him over,” Anathema said, with a nod to Newton. Anathema’s practiced hands held Crowley’s hips, and Newt stood at his shoulders, sliding one hand under his head to lift it like a baby’s, a firm hold just at the back of Crowley’s head, where his skull curved in to meet his neck -

Aziraphale was an instant too late in realizing. “No, you mustn’t,” the angel was saying, but Crowley was already reacting to the touch, snarling and clawing at Newt, thrashing away from the hands holding him. Newt and Anathema stepped back, startled and confused.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Aziraphale said, gathering the agitated Crowley into his arms, trying to soothe him. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. This is real, I’m here.”

Anathema looked about to ask a question, but Aziraphale was definitely not up to explaining about the retinet, about how he’d learned to avoid laying a hand there. “Best to let me,” he said. “Is there a bed?”

“Upstairs,” Anathema said.

“Would you be so kind as to bring the supplies up?” 

Anathema nodded. Aziraphale carried Crowley, who had quieted but was still breathing rapidly, upstairs and laid him down on his side. Anathema followed, setting the bowl and gauze down on the bedside table, then left them alone, closing the door softly behind her.

Remembering Anathema’s movements, he patted more of the herbal paste onto Crowley’s back and shoulders, covering it with gauze. By the time he finished, Crowley had fallen into what appeared to be a deep sleep. It was late, and the room was quiet. Aziraphale stood motionless for a long while, adjusting to the strange new sensation of safety, marred as it was by his concern for Crowley. The room, the sweet domesticity of it, the carpet beneath his feet, the absence of prisoner’s bindings - it was enough, for now. The bed alone was a marvel, the quilt a delight. Aziraphale ran his hands over the clean sheets and adjusted the pillow beneath Crowley’s head. 

After some time, Newt knocked on the door and peeked in. “Anathema sent me to check on your hand and such,” he said, sounding apologetic.

“Of course, of course.” Aziraphale waved him in and sat patiently on the edge of the bed while Newt applied the remnants of the poultice to Aziraphale’s knuckles and brow. Wrapped in gauze, his hand looked like a prizefighter’s before a match, which struck Aziraphale as almost funny. Still plenty of fight to come, he thought.

“I’ll leave you to sleep, then,” said Newt, and Aziraphale saw no need to correct him.

“Thank you, dear boy.”

Newt made to leave, but Aziraphale stopped him on his way out the door. “Oh, and if you would be so kind -” Aziraphale handed him the clock that sat on the dresser “- as to take this?”


	29. Holds Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley fights to keep from being dragged back to Hell, but it's not easy.
> 
> (The entire point of this story is hurt/comfort, y'all, that's all this chapter is. Also, I know we've had lots of Aziraphale's POV chapters in a row; gonna get back to Crowley soon.)

With the clock no longer ticking, and the cool air blowing gently through the room, the night was peaceful. The scent of cut grass mingled with the floral odors of Anathema’s salve. Somewhere a cricket was chirping. The cottage’s windows were open, and the freshness was like balm to his lungs after so long in Hell. 

Unfortunately Aziraphale couldn’t well enjoy the safety, the quiet, the presence of love and growing things, all of which he had missed so much during his captivity. Because the one he truly wanted to share it with was lying unconscious next to him, unable to revel in their new freedom, too damaged to celebrate their escape.

Here was Aziraphale, surrounded only by friends and allies, for the first time in ages. But with Crowley unconscious, Aziraphale felt terribly alone.

It took all his willpower not to try and nudge Crowley awake. He told himself not to disturb Crowley, that this rest was what the demon needed. It worried him, though, how still Crowley lay, swathed in bandages, his chest barely lifting with each breath.

Anathema had told him that Hell would try to pull Crowley back in through his injuries. What did that mean? What was happening, beneath those bandages? Aziraphale felt nearly as helpless as he had before, with no information, not knowing where Crowley was, trapped as much by his isolation, his distance from Crowley, than the four walls of his cell.

Then he felt something in his hand - it was like a tug, something pulling, from the small cuts on his knuckles. His fingers suddenly felt very tired, and he wanted nothing more than to rest it, to never move it again, to surrender to whatever force was dragging it down. A few moments later, he felt a resistance. Deep purple stains bloomed on the bandages as Anathema’s remedy activated, and he felt a warring impulse within him to move, to fight. He flexed his fingers, then made a tight fist and opened it again, shaking his hand. 

A similar sensation formed just above his eye, like something heavy and sluggish trying to worm its way into him, spreading a nauseating drowsiness under his skin. He blinked rapidly and pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing the spot. 

Then Crowley stirred. Aziraphale forgot his own discomfort and turned to him. The bandages covering the demon were also growing sticky and dark. He moaned and opened his eyes halfway, twisting in the sheets.

“Can’t,” he croaked out. “Won’t. No.”

“That’s right, dear,” Aziraphale said, taking one of Crowley’s hands in his. “Fight it, you can do it.”

Crowley was glaring at something beyond Aziraphale, as if in a memory, like his mind was still imprisoned. “Won’t do it,” he said. “Can’t make me.” 

“You’re safe, darling,” Aziraphale replied. “It’s alright.”

Crowley’s raised his arms, as if defending himself against an invisible attacker. “Please. No, no, no...”

“Sshhh, it’s okay.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley into his arms, gingerly avoiding the bigger bandages as he settled the demon in his lap, holding Crowley as he tensed and squirmed and grimaced.

“Don’t touch him,” Crowley cried. “Kill you, I’ll kill you!” 

“I’m here, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “We’re safe, it’s over. They’re gone.”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “Dukes and barons, think that’s funny, yeah?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what that meant. All he could do was make gentle sounds and hope something was making it through.

Crowley grew more and more agitated, kicking against the tangled sheets and shouting. He continued to speak in disjointed phrases, rambling from pleas to strange non-sequiturs to threats. Aziraphale kept responding, though he couldn’t tell whether Crowley heard him. 

Eventually, Crowley seemed to calm down. His agonized movements slowed and he stopped babbling. But Aziraphale soon realized that this wasn’t relief, but exhaustion. Crowley was losing whatever battle was raging inside him, and Hell’s torments were wearing him down. 

“Hurts,” Crowley whispered, one hand grabbing at the thick square of gauze covering the wound in his side. 

“Keep fighting, love,” Aziraphale said, as loudly and forcefully as he dared without spooking Crowley in his addled state. “Come on.”

Crowley made a choked whimpering sound, his head rolling back and forth in the crook of Aziraphale’s arm. “ ‘M sorry, Aziraphale.”

“No. No, Crowley.” Aziraphale ran a hand over Crowley’s cheek, then gently held the demon’s face to look into his heavily lidded eyes. “Stay with me.”

“Deserve it,” Crowley mumbled, his gaze unfocused. “I let them take you.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself then. He grabbed Crowley and shook him a little. “Crowley, stop being daft, please. You’re talking nonsense.”

Crowley didn’t say anything, just made soft pained noises. His eyelids fluttered. Aziraphale clung to Crowley’s sweating, shaky body as if he was at risk of being physically ripped away.

“Stop it, Crowley.” Aziraphale fought back hot tears. “Stop this.”

“Made you watch...wasn’t strong enough. Weak.” Crowley was speaking as if his tongue was too heavy, his words slow and slurred.

Aziraphale was crying then, terror and rage and helplessness bubbling over with nowhere else to go. “Crowley, you have to fight this. We’ve come too far - I can’t lose you, Crowley. Please.”

“Gotta go.” Crowley’s voice was growing softer. “S’where I belong...a demon.”

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale couldn’t believe he was having this argument, such as it was. “You have to stay with me. You simply must. This is where you belong. Surely you know that.”

Crowley opened his eyes all the way then, and looked into Aziraphale’s for the first time that night.

“Angel,” he said, and he sounded like himself again.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” Aziraphale said, desperation racing through his words. “Fight it, Crowley.”

“You’d be safe,” Crowley said, his voice clear but strained, like every word took monumental effort. “They won’t chase you. Just want me.”

Of course that would be Hell’s angle to suck Crowley back in; getting him to sacrifice himself for Aziraphale. “I’d go after you, you foolish boy. You know that.”

Crowley’s sighed, the broken sound of someone who saw no options before them. His eyes fell shut again and Aziraphale could feel the demon’s deep weariness, how close he was to losing the struggle. They were both sticky and damp, covered in sweat, the blackish pus that drained from the demonic wounds, and the floral paste that held it at bay.

“Don’t you dare give up, Crowley.” Aziraphale summoned up every bit of strength, of courage, of stubbornness, that he ever had, and did his best to channel them into Crowley without the use of a miracle. “You’ve been through so much, my love. I’m so sorry. But you must keep fighting. Just a bit longer. Please, Crowley. For me.”

Crowley made a pained groan, but beneath it was a little noise of acquiesence. He never could say no to Aziraphale. Asking that was unfair, Aziraphale knew. Then again, nothing about this was fair. If it took Aziraphale begging, if it took him dragging Crowley past his limits, if he had to demand more of Crowley than was ever fair to ask, well then, he’d just have to make it up to Crowley later.

_If_ there was a later. 

There _had_ to be a later.

That’s all that mattered now.

“For you,” Crowley whispered. He held tightly to Aziraphale, shuddering and crying silently as the infernal magic waged its war on him.

Aziraphale held him just as closely, making soft soothing sounds. “So brave, so strong,” he said, his face buried in Crowley’s hair as they faced down the long night. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.” 

If Aziraphale could have taken some of this from Crowley, he gladly would have. He hated seeing Crowley adrift in this sea of shame, of fear, of pain, of suffering, without any way to lift him onto dry land. It was like being back in Hell’s invisible booth all over again, nothing but an impotent witness.

This time, though he could touch Crowley, could talk to him. Could reassure him that it would have an end. That his struggle would be worth it. And he did. Aziraphale sat up all night with his beloved, willing his presence to be enough. It was all he could give. 

The sun rose on them wrapped together, breathing in tandem. Aziraphale lifted his head and looked out the window at the pink streaks over the countryside. Crowley was curled against his chest, having finally fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning.

Dawn had broken and Crowley was still here. They were both still here. Relief flooded in with the sunshine. The reality of what Crowley had done for him - everything he’d done - was overwhelming. Aziraphale had never felt such joy. He could hardly believe the awe, the pride, the gratitude that filled him when he gazed down at the being in his arms.

He had been wrong before. He’d never be able to make it up to Crowley.

But now, he had an eternity to try.


	30. Safe When They Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up. Trauma symptoms manifest as irritability. Newt makes waffles.

Early in the morning Crowley started to stir again, this time in the same manner he usually awoke, drowsy and half-asleep for longer than Aziraphale assumed was average. 

The bed was still a mess. Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley’s first sight upon waking to be bloody bandages and sweat-wrecked sheets. Without the ability to miracle it clean, Aziraphale cast about for other options before noticing the slim, pink painted door to the bathroom.

Though he hated to leave Crowley alone, even for a second, he went into the bathroom and started the warm water in the tub. He grabbed the wastebasket and returned to gather every piece of soiled gauze from the bed. A few still clung to Crowley’s skin, and he gently tugged those off, relieved to see the skin below them looking much better than it had the day before, though the wounds remained angry and red at their edges.

The bowl of Anathema’s herbal remedy still sat on the end table with the leftover salve dried in the bottom. Aziraphale pulled out the dried bit, curved in the shape of the bowl, and took it into the bathroom, where he dropped it into the nearly full tub of warm bathwater. It dissolved quickly, leaving small bits of flower petal to float in the water and infusing the steam with a heady floral scent. 

When he lifted Crowley from the bed, the demon looked up at him through half-closed eyes and gave a soft, sleepy smile. It was the best thing Aziraphale had ever seen. He laid Crowley in the tub, then knelt down on the floor beside him, taking up a soft washcloth.

Something stopped him, then. He looked down at his hands, holding the still-dry cloth.

There was no way to do this without rolling up his sleeves.

And he very much did not want to do that.

But Crowley had seen him use the demonic figurine, seen him shift. He’d want an explanation. The secret was as good as out, and there was nothing for it now. 

With a sigh of resignation, Aziraphale unbuttoned the shirt and tossed it in the corner of the bathroom. He hated the thing, anyway. Doing his best to ignore the dark scar inside his left arm, he picked up the washcloth again and started to tend to Crowley, rubbing the demon’s skin clean, tracing his body with soothing touches.

Crowley drew closer and closer to consciousness as Aziraphale worked, and by the time the water had cooled, his eyes were open and he looked aware enough of his surroundings to be confused.

“Angel…” Crowley said, looking around. 

Though Aziraphale was thrilled to have Crowley back, he was also filled with dread at the prospect of answering any questions Crowley might have.

“Aziraphale, where are we?” Crowley’s voice sounded low and measured, as if there was an answer he suspected he would receive.

“Yes, well, about that.” Aziraphale stood and puttered around the bathroom, grabbing a fluffy towel and holding it out to Crowley. “Probably best for you to dry off, first.”

Crowley stood and snatched the towel from Aziraphale, hurriedly wrapping it around himself. “Aziraphale. Where are we.”

Aziraphale couldn’t look Crowley in the eyes. “We’re in Tadfield, dear,” he told the bath mat.

When Aziraphale looked back up, Crowley’s eyes were narrowed, and his teeth were gritted with rage. “No,” he seethed. “You didn’t.”

Aziraphale knew exactly why Crowley was so upset. He had thought many times, over the past day, how terrible it was, what he’d done. With both Heaven and Hell in pursuit, having seen exactly what they were capable of, Aziraphale had shown up at the home of two innocent humans.

He had argued fiercely with himself during the long drive. He had come close to telling the driver to stop somewhere, anywhere, else. But with Crowley dying in his arms, with nowhere else to run, he did the only thing he could have.

“We have to go. Now.” Crowley pushed his way past Aziraphale and into the bedroom, where he started looking for something to wear. When he found nothing, he held up his hand as if to snap his fingers, and Aziraphale cried out.

“Crowley! No!”

Crowley froze in position, his fingers pressed against each other, about to snap.

“We can’t. They’ll track the miracles.”

Crowley looked at his hand as if it belonged to someone else, then dropped it to his side. “Well, then.” He continued yanking open the drawers of the wardrobe in the bedroom, eventually finding a blue bathrobe and pulling it on. 

He stormed toward the door and Aziraphale stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “Crowley, please.”

“I can’t believe this,” Crowley said through his teeth. “How could you?”

Aziraphale was crying now, big hot tears rolling down his face. He understood why Crowley was so angry, he did. But he was so tired, and so happy to have his demon back, and he didn’t want to fight. “You were dying, Crowley. I didn’t have a choice.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and lifted his arms dramatically. “Didn’t have a choice? Of course you had a choice.” He looked right into Aziraphale’s eyes, his glare pointed and severe.

Aziraphale knew what that glare meant. Crowley had always been fonder of the humans, more grieved over their deaths. Aziraphale certainly loved earth, and all its inhabitants, but when it came down to enduring an eternity without Crowley, or risking a slightly earlier end to the two humans’ already short lives, there was only ever one possible choice. He had chosen Crowley’s life over Newt and Anathema’s.

“She saved your life,” Aziraphale said, knowing it was a poor argument.

“Some thanks she’ll get,” Crowley said. 

“Crowley, you must understand.” Aziraphale was pleading now. “There is magic here, human magic, protecting the house. No one knows we’re here. It’s the safest place we can be, for now. I know I’ve endangered the humans, and I am sorry for that, but we’re here, and that’s that.”

“That’s that, is it? I don’t get a say in any of it?” 

Crowley was sneering, cold, distant. Aziraphale told himself it was just pain and fear and confusion finding the closest target. But he was losing his patience. It wasn’t as if Crowley was the only one who had reason to feel afraid and angry. 

“Well it’s not as if you were in any state to be consulted!”

“Oh, so this is my fault, then?” Crowley was nearly shouting now, his words nasally and mocking. “Foolish me, going and getting myself speared, certainly shouldn’t have done that, my apologies."

“Please, dear,” Aziraphale said, his lip trembling. “You’ll disturb them.”

“DISTURB them!?” Crowley sounded shocked, indignant. “Satan forbid we bother their beauty rest, can’t have that, not at all. Bringing an army of vengeful demons to their door, though, that’s excusable - do I have that right?”

Aziraphale couldn’t stand it any longer. He collapsed onto the unmade bed, sobbing into his hands. “I’m sorry, Crowley,” he cried. And he was. Sorry for everything. Sorry that Crowley had been hurt. Sorry that he had dragged the humans into this. Sorry he couldn’t fix any of it. He was so, so sorry. 

Then Crowley was beside him, one arm wrapped around his still bare shoulders. Aziraphale could feel the fluff of the robe on his skin. He fell into Crowley, his chest still heaving with sobs.

“Hey, angel, it’s alright.” Crowley was quiet, now, speaking close into Aziraphale’s ear. "I shouldn’t have shouted. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale sniffled. “I thought I would lose you again,” he mumbled.

“I know.” Crowley’s broad hand was rubbing slow circles on Aziraphale’s back. “You saved me. You did what you had to.”

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale hiccuped as the tears started to slow. 

“It’s alright.” All the anger had drained from him, and Crowley just sounded exhausted. “You’re right, we’re here now. We can try to protect them, and ourselves.”

Aziraphale buried his damp face in Crowley’s robe, wiping his tears and gathering himself enough to speak again.

“She has books.”

“Lucky you,” Crowley said playfully, twirling a finger through Aziraphale’s curls.

Aziraphale looked up at him, taking a deep breath to try and control his crying. “Useful books, Crowley. On spells, and ways out from demonic contracts.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, looking out the window to the countryside, which was resting peacefully under a blanket of fog. He was quiet for a bit, then opened his mouth to say something when he was interrupted by a timid knock on the door.

“Yes?” Aziraphale called.

Newt pushed the door open and peeked in. “I'm making waffles. Anathema said I should come tell you. And, um, that whenever you’re feeling up to it, she wants to ‘talk next steps.’”

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “We’ll be down shortly.”

Newt nodded awkwardly, then disappeared from the doorway.

“How are you feeling, love?"

Crowley touched the wound on his side, then tested it a bit by twisting and stretching, stopping when the motion elicited a wince. “Well enough to accompany you downstairs for some waffles.” Then he gave Aziraphale a significant look. “But we have some catching up to do on our own later.”

  
  


***

Downstairs, the kitchen was a mess of waffle batter and fresh berries. Aziraphale had never been hungrier in his life. To make matters even lovelier, Newt had brought him a shirt to wear. Aziraphale pulled it on gratefully, overjoyed to have something not conjured in Hell against his skin. 

Crowley was still in the fuzzy blue robe, and Aziraphale noticed Newt suppress multiple giggles at the sight. Now that they weren’t shouting at each other, Aziraphale could appreciate just how adorable Crowley was, his skinny frame wrapped in a giant fluffy bathrobe. Not that he’d ever point it out, mind. Newt had the smart idea, keeping it to himself. 

Aziraphale could tell that Anathema had at least a thousand questions to ask him, and he supposed it would be the polite thing to do to answer them, especially after barging into her house the previous night with a nearly discorporated demon. But Newt and Crowley were chattering amiably over coffee about computer viruses, and the waffles had homemade whipped cream, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to give up this moment for a much darker conversation. 

Bless her, Anathema seemed to understand that as well. She brought Aziraphale seconds, and thirds, and she laughed with him when Crowley dragged the robe sleeve through some jam, and she had the mercy to leave painful things unsaid. 

There would be time later. Once the dishes were done, and Crowley changed into something more suited to him, and after Aziraphale had spent one precious morning knowing that, for here, for now, he was free and safe. 


	31. Unafraid to Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale come clean to each other about the secrets they've been keeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no solid guess about how many chapters remain, but this story is definitely wrapping up. I'd say we're mid-way through Act 3?

Crowley was sure that Aziraphale had his own plans and intentions for the day. But they would just have to be thwarted. Now that Crowley had some Earth-brewed coffee in him, he would not abide one more instant of being led around, not even by his beloved angel.

Crowley waited until Aziraphale was particularly distracted by Anathema’s offer of more whipped cream. Leaning in to speak conspiratorially to Newt, Crowley gave him a clear set of instructions. “We’ve got a metal file box upstairs. Plenty of cash in it - don’t touch anything else. You’re going to take the lady, and go into town, and you’re going to buy me a new pair of sunglasses, some reasonable clothes, and some for Aziraphale too. And you’re going to find every warding spell she has in every one of those witchy books, and you’re going to buy every ingredient they call for, three times over. Do you understand?”

Newt nodded. 

“Listen here. Take as much time as you need, then take even more. I’m sure Anathema wants to have an endless chat with Aziraphale, and once they get to talking each other’s ears off, that’ll be it. I need to speak with him alone, and it’s your job to separate those two for as long as possible.”

Newt looked nervous. Crowley had that effect on humans. “But, uh,” he started, glancing over at Aziraphale. It was clear that Newt felt equally uncomfortable defying Aziraphale’s wishes as he did Crowley’s.

“Don’t worry about him giving you any trouble. Just bustle yourselves out the door, I’ll handle the rest. Got it?”

“Okay.” Newt did not look certain in his abilities to pry Anathema from the cottage. Crowley hoped he could manage it.

“Breakfast was splendid, my dears,” Aziraphale was saying, rising from his chair.

Anathema stood, too, and was about to say something when Crowley gave Newt a Look, and Newt stammered an interruption.

“Anathema, uh, Crowley was just asking me if we could pick some things up from town, and it is a very nice day -”

Anathema looked cross. “Couldn’t you two go get them,” she said, addressing Crowley, “and I’ll stay back with Aziraphale? We have a lot to discuss.”

Crowley made a show of touching his injured torso and grimacing. “Not sure I’m up for a trip to the shops, I’m afraid.” 

“Come on, sweet,” Newt said, wringing his hands. “Let’s give our guests some space. I’m sure there will be plenty of time to talk later.”

Aziraphale was staring at Crowley with an expression that indicated he knew something was afoot, but wanted no part of it. 

“Go on, then,” Crowley said, making a shooing motion at the couple. “We’ll have the kitchen all cleaned up for you when you get back.”

Anathema opened her mouth to argue again, but Newt had taken her hand and was drawing her upstairs. “We’ll be back soon,” he appeased, then gave a meek shrug when Crowley responded with a cocked eyebrow. 

Once they were gone, Aziraphale sat back down at the table, swirling a finger through the maple syrup pooled on his plate. “That wasn’t very polite,” he chided, “sending them out of their own home."

Crowley crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. He missed his sunglasses. “We have a lot to discuss, angel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, pausing to pop his finger in his mouth. “I suppose we do.”

They moved to the sitting room, though Aziraphale had protested that they ought to clean the kitchen first, since Crowley had so kindly volunteered them for the job. Crowley, for his part, was brooking no dissent and cared far less about the promise he’d made to get the humans out of their hair than he did about getting answers to the questions that had been boiling inside him since he awoke.

They sat across from each other, Aziraphale stiff in a high-backed chair, Crowley on the sofa. As soon as he was seated, Crowley began. “Why did the toad shift work for you? How did you know it would? What did they do to you?”

Aziraphale sighed and drummed his fingers on the upholstered arm of his chair. “They didn’t do anything to me - well, nothing that would have changed my relationship to Hell’s magics. I did it to myself.”

“You what?”

Aziraphale held out his left arm, and Crowley saw the scar that resided there: a hard purplish lump with blackened tendrils extending from it, fading away after an inch or two. If he’d seen it before, he must have assumed it came from Aziraphale’s torture. He saw now that this wasn’t a normal scar.

“Angel,” Crowley said, barely getting the words out around the choked feeling in his throat. “What is that?”

Aziraphale pulled his arm back and covered the mark with his hand, rubbing the spot with his thumb. It struck Crowley that he’d seen that motion before - Aziraphale had had this odd habit since they were reunited, since before Hell had laid a hand on him. What did it mean? And why had Aziraphale been so determined to hide it?

“Aziraphale.” Crowley was trying to keep his voice steady. “What do you mean, you did it to yourself? What is that?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “It was before I saw you, before...They had me in this room, for who knows how long, and I needed to get out. I had to try something.”

Crowley could barely contain his frustration. “What did you do, angel?”

“I knew Hell couldn’t hurt me, I knew I was still under Heaven’s protection. So I thought, if I did get hurt, somehow, Heaven would have to come down, and - and do something about it.”

Crowley had no words for the emotions that welled up in him. If pressed, he might have chosen: rage, betrayal, grief, shock, desolation. 

“You,” he gasped, feeling as though his chest might collapse. “You tried to leave?”

“No!” Aziraphale nearly threw himself out of the chair, landing at Crowley’s feet. He tried to take the demon’s hands in his, but Crowley pulled them away, gripping the edges of the couch instead. “Crowley, no, of course I didn’t.” Aziraphale was persistent, clutching Crowley’s hands, fingers wrapped around knuckles. “I was trying to get to you, Crowley. I would never have left Hell without you.”

Crowley didn’t realize he’d begun crying until Aziraphale reached up and brushed a tear from his cheek. “They could have taken you back to Heaven,” he said, voice wobbly.

Aziraphale frowned. “I was Hell’s prisoner, and they didn’t seem keen to give up their custody. I just needed a way out of that damnable room.”

Crowley tugged his hands out from under Aziraphale’s and wiped his eyes. This conversation was not going the way he’d intended. What he wanted was answers to all his questions, and here he was dissolving after the first piece of information. 

Aziraphale moved to sit on the sofa next to Crowley. “And it worked, love. It was part of how I got to speak to you. I know you were fighting so hard, while we were apart, and I had to fight too, had to figure out my own plan.”

Crowley sniffed. “What did you do?”

Aziraphale resumed rubbing his arm. “Well, if you must know,” he huffed, and Crowley marvelled at the nerve Aziraphale had. “I stabbed myself with a bit of brimstone.”

Crowley had no response. His mouth fell open, and he was aware of how nakedly he was staring at Aziraphale. He hoped Newt brought him some nice dark sunglasses. 

Aziraphale began to do that thing he did where he attempted to alleviate discomfort by nattering on. He hadn’t done that much in Hell, especially towards the end; had been often quiet and sometimes distant, resigned to the never ending presence of discomfort. But now, here in Jasmine Cottage, he was falling into old patterns. Crowley wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or not.

“Yes, it wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had, I’ll be the first to admit, and it felt rather awful, but, you know how they say: desperate measures for desperate times, and all that. It worked, though, in its own way. Remember, darling, that moment, when we saw each other, after all that time, and you could speak to me. They did take away my clothes, which I found entirely uncalled for. It was really only my coat, after all. I thought often of you, when I was ill. So often. I just needed to find a way to you.”

Crowley was coming back to himself after the shock of Aziraphale’s revelation. There were a hundred possible questions: like where Aziraphale had possibly gotten himself a piece of brimstone, why his coat was involved, how he had survived, and what any of that had to do with him and Crowley ending up on the same dungeon floor. 

But none of them seemed pressing, not right now. Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s arm, and the angel let him take it, though there was hesitance there.

Direct contact with Hellfire, even for a demon, was excruciating. Certainly Corson’s favorite whip had demonstrated that. Crowley could hardly believe Aziraphale had done it to himself. 

The demon ran one fingertip over the mark and felt Aziraphale shiver. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, looking down at his arm, at Crowley’s hands, holding it. “It did. Terribly. But not anymore.”

Crowley thought for a moment, chewing his lip. “And that’s why the lizard worked.”

“I think it was a toad, darling.”

Crowley did not take the bait. “Did you know it would?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “There wasn’t much time in the moment to consider it, was there? I hoped it would.”

Crowley closed his eyes, trying to push away the thought of what might have happened if Aziraphale hadn’t been able to shift in that moment. 

“Has anything else…” Crowley gestured lamely at Aziraphale, at where his wings would be if they were manifested. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said. “I certainly didn’t fall, and I don’t think I’ve lost any of my ethereal powers.”

Crowley felt relieved. He leaned in to hug Aziraphale, his lanky frame bent over the angel’s shoulders. They held each other like that for a good long moment before Aziraphale spoke.

“I have some questions for you as well, dear.”

Crowley stiffened and made to sit up, but Aziraphale held him tight. He felt the angel’s hands run over his back, still covered by the soft terrycloth of the robe.

“What happened to you, before we left Hell?”

Crowley pretended not to know what Aziraphale was talking about. “You were there, angel. Took a few blows from that prick Corson, then the business end of the guard’s spear.”

Aziraphale made a disappointed sound through his teeth. “That wasn’t all, Crowley. I saw it.”

Crowley wanted to melt into the sofa, wanted to sleep, wanted to nip out and join Newt and Anathema on their errands, anything to keep from explaining to Aziraphale the reality of his life in Hell after the contract was signed.

But Aziraphale had been honest with him. He owed him the truth, miserable as it would be for both of them. 

Crowley sat up now, and Aziraphale let him. They sat side by side on the couch, barely touching, not looking at each other. 

“That contract we signed, remember?” Crowley felt stupid, of course Aziraphale remembered. “It said I would be restored to all my rights and powers as a denizen of Hell. But it didn’t say Beelzebub couldn’t promote every other sorry demon in that place, so that I was the weakest, lowest of any rank. It was pretty much open season, after he figured that out.”

Aziraphale gasped. “Crowley, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know -”

Crowley waved a hand. “It’s fine, angel. Any contract with demons has loopholes. I was just glad it wasn’t you caught in one.”

“It’s most certainly not fine, Crowley.” Aziraphale sounded upset, and Crowley hated that he’d upset him. “All those times I sent you out, looking for books.” Dawning horror rose in Aziraphale’s voice - a horror Crowley had worked so hard to protect him from. “I knew you hated going out there, but - I didn’t realize, I’m so sorry -”

“Aziraphale, stop.” Crowley couldn’t hear any more. “It’s done, it’s over. And we’re out. We wouldn’t be if you hadn’t - if I had - without the books.”

“Seems we were both keeping some secrets down there,” Aziraphale said, thoughtful. Crowley squirmed uncomfortably. “I do apologize, Crowley. I just - I didn’t want to worry you. You were already in so much pain, and we had enough to be anxious about. I suppose I didn’t want to burden you with knowledge of my suffering.” He laughed, but it was more like a forced breath. “Seems silly, now, doesn’t it? Both of us doing the same thing.”

Crowley couldn’t even fake a laugh, or see any silliness in the situation. He took Aziraphale’s hands in his and looked directly into the angel’s eyes. “Aziraphale. Please. Promise you won’t do that again. If you’re hurting, I want to know.”

Aziraphale cocked his head slightly and looked just past Crowley’s ear. “I’d hope that neither of us has occasion to ever suffer such pain again, so it ought to be a moot point.”

“I’m serious.” Crowley wanted to grab Aziraphale’s shoulders and shake him. Instead, he just squeezed his hands tightly. It was maddening, this talent of the angel’s, to dodge and deny any reality that was too unpleasant. Not two days after escaping torture and captivity in Hell, here he was, trying to retreat back into his fantasy, to ignore, to forget. “We don’t know what’s coming. I need your word that no matter what, we’ll be in it together. Don’t hide things from me like that. Please.”

Aziraphale set his jaw. Crowley saw a flash of the soldier’s posture ripple through his shoulders. “Only if you make me the same promise, Crowley. You mustn’t try to shield me. I’ve witnessed your torture. We can’t protect each other if we don’t know what we’re facing. Do you promise?”

“I promise, angel. No more secrets. And you?”

“I promise. No more secrets.”

They fell into each other, then, as if a tension had broken, as if invisible wires that had been holding them apart snapped. After some time Aziraphale remembered the kitchen, and the two of them moved there to begin cleaning. Without miracles, it took some time, but it was precious time, glorious time. The noontime sun filled the kitchen as they moved in tandem, flicking sudsy water at each other and fussing playfully over precariously stacked dishes.

It was like a vision Crowley had clung to, back in Hell, those long days and longer nights, alone and hurting. In it, he was with Aziraphale, and they were somewhere that Crowley could only describe as home, and they were safe, and the windows were open, and they were free, and there were plants and pastries and wine and books, and they were together.

They weren’t yet home, and they weren’t yet safe, but they were together. And that, like it had been for so long in Hell, would have to be enough. 


	32. This Terrible Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema learns a bit more about what Crowley and Aziraphale went through before ending up at her door. Her first priority is to help Crowley and Aziraphale figure out how to break their contract with Hell. Aziraphale is hurting, Crowley is tetchy, Newt makes tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay on this chapter! I got caught up in life stuff and some other fics. There are only a few more chapters remaining in this story, and I'm hoping to have the whole thing finished before mid-December. Everyone's comments and support have been so inspiring so far - huge thanks to everyone! <3

The young couple returned a few hours later, with armfuls of packages that Newt distributed: sunglasses for Crowley, clothing for both of them, and a variety of spell components that Anathema scattered over the newly cleaned kitchen table. 

Aziraphale retired immediately upstairs to change, but Crowley was rather enjoying the fluffy blue bathrobe, and it seemed to make Aziraphale happy to see him in it, so he stayed downstairs. He did appreciate the sunglasses - not as stylish as his usual, but nothing absurd. Newt had clearly tried, and Crowley again felt a sharp pang of regret for the maelstrom he and Aziraphale had dragged the humans into.

Aziraphale returned, beaming. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said, pausing on the landing to show off his new outfit - another plain white oxford, pale grey slacks, and a tweed jacket with tartan elbow patches. Crowley doubted anyone in the history of England had ever been that excited to put on a tweed jacket. But the angel’s joy was infectious, and Crowley loved to see him like this. 

Newt put the kettle on, and Crowley hoped they might be in for an afternoon as relaxed as the morning. Then Anathema dropped a stack of books on the table with a loud thump and looked expectantly at him and Aziraphale. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, I rather think we do,” Aziraphale said, taking a seat at the table. His straight-backed posture reminded Crowley of the meeting down in Hell, when Aziraphale had signed himself over. For someone who’d never had any kind of boyhood, Aziraphale certainly had a “former Head Boy” attitude about him.

Anathema took the seat opposite Aziraphale. “Why don’t you tell me everything that’s happened, and then I’ll tell you everything I’ve found?”

“Alright, then.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a nervous look, as if he didn’t want to tell the story wrong. Crowley nodded at him reassuringly. Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“They came for us - we were together, in the park. We were trying to keep an eye out for any, er, occult or ethereal activity. But it had been so long with nothing but peace, and, well, I must admit that I let my guard down a bit.”

Crowley reached over and took Aziraphale’s hand. He wouldn’t let the angel blame himself for what had happened. “We both did,” he interrupted. “Was no one’s fault. Just happened.”

Aziraphale was blinking rapidly, uncomfortable with the memory. “They - Hell, it was demons - they took Crowley, and -” he paused to catch his breath, wiping his eyes as he tried to control himself.

Crowley cut in. “Separated us, then. Beelzebub told me Hell couldn’t lay a hand on Aziraphale because of Heaven’s protection. So they wanted me to. I told them to shove it up their boil-ridden arses. Then they took me off somewhere, and Aziraphale somewhere else.”

Crowley paused to let Aziraphale continue, which turned out to have been a bad idea. His confident posture from a few moments ago had crumbled, and Aziraphale was shaking, gasping, struggling to speak.

“They put me in - they wouldn’t let me - they took my -” Aziraphale was hiccuping more than he was talking, unable to finish a sentence. He covered his face in his hands and dissolved into tears.

Crowley felt awkward, sitting there in a robe and sunglasses, two humans watching as he tried to console Aziraphale by patting his arm. “Alright, well,” he said, with a gruffness he hoped sounded authoritative. “Probably don’t need to go through the whole thing. Point is, Aziraphale signed himself into the custody of Hell in exchange for my, er, freedom. I wasn’t supposed to leave Hell, though. Then we...” he gestured around the room as if it contained obvious information that made his point for him, “...now we’re here.”

“You escaped a contract with Hell?” Anathema said, awe in her voice and her eyes.

“Well, no, not exactly,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale moaned behind his hands. “Technically, we’re both still their prisoners. We just - we left on different terms.”

Now Anathema looked horrified. “You’re still under contract with Hell?”

Crowley suddenly found it impossible to look at Anathema’s face, even with his eyes hidden behind the new glasses. “Yes. I imagine they’re not too happy about that. You got everything for the warding spells, right?”

Newt started to say something about a search for anise vs star anise, but Anathema interrupted him. “You’ve absconded from a contract with Hell, and you’re  _ here? _ ”

At this, Aziraphale collapsed, his head on the table, cradled by his arms, and sobbed even harder, babbling apologies through his wails.

Crowley suddenly felt very foolish. Here he was, in someone else’s home, wearing a big stupid bathrobe, trying to explain to them that they were now in terrible danger because of him, all the while doing his useless best to soothe a hysterical angel.

“Er,” he said.

“Well, in that case,” Anathema said with no small amount of force, “we have some work to do.” She stood from the table with a determined flourish and started sorting through the books.

***

As nothing could be done to soothe the angel out of his crying, Anathema had convinced Crowley to take Aziraphale upstairs and put him to bed. Aziraphale had protested, flailing miserably and insisting that they leave the cottage immediately, but he was in no state to resist. Between Crowley and Newt, they managed to get him bundled into the guest room and wrapped in some blankets.

“You stay with him,” Crowley ordered, pointing at Newt, “and don’t let him come back downstairs until he’s calmed down.”

Newt did not look confident in his angel managing abilities. “But -”

“I need to help your girlfriend figure a way out of this, and he needs…” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, not knowing entirely what the angel needed, or whether he’d be able to provide it. “He needs some rest, and to think about something else for a while. Best find him a book, something ancient and boring, that’s his favorite.”

“We’ll be fine,” Aziraphale sniffed, clearly more for Newt’s benefit than Crowley’s. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Crowley said, and his tone was soft as he addressed Aziraphale, but his eyes, locked on Newt, were sending the clear message that the human had  _ better not let Aziraphale rush back downstairs, so help him. _

When Crowley returned - after a brief interlude to change into the more reasonable clothing Newt had brought - Anathema had spread her books over the table and was poring over a red leather-bound tome. She looked up at him.

“Do you have the original contract?” 

Crowley had to admit that no, he did not; they hadn’t taken a copy with them when they left. But he remembered it well enough, and Anathema seemed able to work from that. They worked side by side for a while, Anathema searching through dense passages, Crowley explaining or clarifying as needed. He also helped scan the indexes of various books, looking for terms that might point the right way.

Less than half an hour later, Aziraphale appeared on the stairs, followed close behind by Newt, who was making wide eyes at Crowley and mouthing the words  _ I tried! _

“Terribly sorry about all that,” Aziraphale said, fussing at his jacket. “Where were we?”

“Angel,” Crowley said, “we’re fine. Go back to bed.”

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale took a seat at the book-strewn table. Crowley could see that his eyes were still red and puffy. “What are we doing?”

“Nothing,” Crowley tried to say, but Anathema spoke over him.

“We’re finding a way to get you two out from under your contract with Hell.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale shifted in his seat. “What have you found?”

“Some promising stuff here,” Anathema said, sliding a book over toward Aziraphale. “It looks like there are some rituals you can do to break a contract, but it’s not clear how they work yet.”

Aziraphale leaned in to peer closely at the book, and soon he and Anathema had their heads together, murmuring over the pages. 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll make some tea,” Newt said. 

They worked into the evening. Crowley had to admit that Aziraphale did seem more chipper now, surrounded by books, a research project at hand. For his part, the demon was convinced that there was no way out, and that they were simply wasting time that could be spent concealing themselves and preparing for an eternity as fugitives. He tried not to let his pessimism sour the mood, however, and did his best to help.

By the time the sun set, his role had been reduced to defining obscure demonic terms and helping Newt reach books on high shelves whenever Anathema asked for them. Crowley was getting bored and fidgety. Was this going to be his life, from now on? Cloistered up hiding somewhere, watching Aziraphale read and trying to fake hopefulness about some never-ending research project?

He helped Newt prepare dinner, and they all ate in silence, Aziraphale and Anathema being unwilling to tear themselves away from their work. Newt tried to teach Crowley a card game with monsters and lots of fiddly little bits, but when it became evident that Newt had no intention of cheating and expected Crowley to learn the game well enough to play honorably, he lost interest.

The night wore on. Crowley felt as if every passing moment was grinding him down, but he could think of nowhere else to be besides at his angel’s side, even if he was long past any ability to assist.

Then, at about a quarter past ten, the mood around the table started to change. Newt had gone to bed, and Crowley was entertaining himself by stacking discarded books such that the letters in their titles spelled various crude phrases. Aziraphale and Anathema were talking quickly in hushed tones, grabbing and passing books back and forth, flipping pages, comparing notes.

“It could work,” Aziraphale muttered.

“What?” Crowley was suddenly impatient, couldn’t handle being shut out any longer. “What is it?”

They both looked up at him, startled. 

“It looks like a spell,” Anathema said, “that can break a Hell-written contract. But we couldn’t do it, not here, at least.”

“Well,” Aziraphale hedged, “that may not be the case.”

“What are you on about? What do you mean, that may not be the case? Is it a spell, or isn’t it?”

Anathema held the book out to Crowley, pointing to a tiny footnote. “It requires a piece of Hellfire. Which we don’t have.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley raised a hand to stop him.

“No. No. Absolutely not. Find - we’ll find something else.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “be reasonable.”

“What?” Now Anathema was the one curious, out of the loop; and he and Aziraphale were the ones speaking a private language. Crowley took a small amount of satisfaction in returning to that equilibrium. 

Aziraphale pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, holding his arm out to show Anathema.

“What is that? Is - is that -”

“Brimstone.” Aziraphale rolled his sleeve back down and replaced his jacket. 

“How?” Anathema seemed stunned.

“It’s a long story, dear. The fact remains that we do, in fact, have access to some Hellfire, should we have need of it. Which it appears that we do.”

Crowley stood up from the table, pacing the small kitchen while shaking his head. “No, we can’t. Angel, think about it. What’s the plan, just - just cut it out of you?”

“I’d imagine that would be required, yes.”

Crowley groaned, throwing his arms back. Leave it to Aziraphale to get all prim and proper at a time like this. It was enough to make him crazy. 

“What else does it take?” Crowley was sure that any ritual calling for actual, literal Hellfire would be no easy task. Perhaps this would all be a moot point, if the rest of the spell was impossible enough to manage.

Anathema seemed to have read his thoughts. “It’s not a simple spell, but we can do it. All we’d need is the Hellfire,” she said, glancing nervously at Aziraphale. 

“Well, that’s that, then,” Aziraphale said, clapping his hands on the table. “I suppose we ought to figure out how, exactly, to do this.”


	33. Unafraid to Spill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema extracts the brimstone from Aziraphale, but the surgery comes with miserable side effects. Crowley tries to be there for his angel, but Aziraphale is lost in his own trauma.

For a long while Crowley stayed in the kitchen, unwilling to leave Aziraphale and Anathema to their work alone. But when he started grumbling at the little plants sitting on the kitchen windowsill, Aziraphale had “suggested” that Crowley go see if Newt needed anything. 

Newt did not need anything, and it seemed Crowley’s presence agitated the young human even more than Aziraphale, so he took himself into the living room to be useless and restless on his own. He wanted to go outside, having spent far long enough trapped within the confines of walls and rooms, but only the house was warded, and it would have been foolish to expose himself just for the pleasures of a walk. 

Around midnight, Aziraphale and Anathema appeared in the living room. Crowley snapped out of his elaborate daydream about taking vengeance on Hastur. “What?”

“I think we’re ready,” Aziraphale said. “We’ll perform the extraction and ritual in the morning. Best for the humans to get some sleep.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. 

Anathema, standing beside Aziraphale, looked as if she had something to say. She was twisting her hands nervously, but her anxious glances were at Crowley, not Aziraphale.

“What is it?”

“The thing is,” Anathema began, “We think that, once we re-open it, even when we get the brimstone out, it’ll act like an infernal wound.”

“Which I’ve determined is no matter,” Aziraphale said quickly. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, his tone like a warning. 

“I’ll be fine. We know it’s survivable, dear Anathema has everything we need to tend to it. Only a mere unpleasantness, then everything will be tickety-boo.” There was a sharpness in Aziraphale’s voice that begged Crowley not to argue. 

“Alright.” It was not alright, but what else was there to say? 

“I’ll go to bed, then,” Anathema said, in her peculiar American way. “Do you two need anything?”

“No, we’re just fine. Thank you for everything, love.” Aziraphale smiled her upstairs, then joined Crowley on the sofa. They did not speak. All Crowley cared about at this point was that he was able to wrap himself around the angel, who was sitting on the sofa, perched on the edge, leaning forward so he could sift through some books on the coffee table. Crowley lay across the sofa, curled around Aziraphale’s hips, his head on one of the angel’s thighs, knees curled up against the other one. He may not have been able to shift into his snake form anymore, but he was still a serpent.

Crowley slept, and Aziraphale studied. It was just like old times.

At one point, Crowley woke during the night. Aziraphale was gone from the couch, and Crowley opened his eyes, lifting his head to look around the room.

Aziraphale was standing at the window, looking outside, where the moonlight made the frosty grass appear as a silver pool. It was the end of fall, and the trees were becoming skeletal.

It was early spring when they were taken.  _ Had it really been almost a year...or more? _ The thought was too awful. He turned his attention back to Aziraphale, who was staring blankly and rubbing his thumb over the spot in his arm where, Crowley now knew, the brimstone was embedded.

Crowley recognized the tic. Aziraphale had done it nearly constantly when they were together in Hell.  _ How had he not realized what it meant? _

Crowley watched his angel in the mercury moonlight. Aziraphale had not noticed that Crowley was awake. He was lost in himself, like he was so often these days.

Crowley remembered how poorly the angel had been during their captivity; obsessive, withdrawn. The way he’d start sentences from the middle, as if he could no longer tell what was thought and what he had spoken aloud. The lists he wrote, then read and re-read over and over. How he’d fussed constantly with his clothing, touching his shirt buttons over and over as if he expected them to disappear, always adjusting an imaginary bowtie.

And that was after they were together, after Aziraphale had gotten some answers, some clothes, some books.  _ How long had the angel been trapped, alone and afraid?  _

Crowley had been tortured, yes, but he knew what was going on. The demons spoke to him. He had choices, abhorrent as they were.

All that time, Aziraphale had been shut up in a silent tomb. Crowley tried to imagine how desperate, how helpless, the angel must have been to mutilate himself with Hellfire as a last resort. He could not. It was rare that Crowley found his imagination wanting, but in this, his mind refused.

Aziraphale was still before the window. The only part of him that moved was his thumb, slowly tracing the same circle over and over as he stared blankly at nothing. 

It felt as if there was a wide gulf between them. The difference between their suffering, their private and unshared torments was like a great sea carrying Aziraphale farther and farther away from him. For a terrifying moment Crowley felt as if Aziraphale was thousands of miles away and not just the distance of a small cottage living room. 

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, sitting up. Aziraphale turned, startled, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. “Come here, come to me.” Crowley held his arms open, beckoning Aziraphale, who shuffled toward him and sat down stiffly.

Crowley wrapped Aziraphale in an embrace, pulling him closer. Aziraphale remained rigid, as if he’d forgotten how to be held. Crowley slowly ran his hands over the angel’s body, willing him to relax, to come back to this moment, this place, to let himself be comforted. 

_ How soft he was, in body and soul. _ Aziraphale tilted toward comfort like a flower to the sun, unwilling to move from in front of the fireplace when it was chilly, picky about fine wines.  _ And yet, he was so hard when he had to be. _ Crowley remembered the straightness of Aziraphale’s back as he stood in the doorway, facing down his undeserved sentence. The resoluteness in his voice when he told Crowley to hurt him. The firmness of his hand holding Crowley’s through the negotiation.

Anger surged in Crowley. _How dare this world demand more of Aziraphale, who had already given so much?_

“You don’t have to do it, angel,” he said. “We can find another way.”

Aziraphale spoke without looking at him. “His longing eyes, impatient, backward cast, to catch a lover's look, but looked his last,” he said, in the distant tone he used to reference literature. 

“Uh.”

“By second fate, and double death subdued.” Aziraphale paused, thoughtful, then finally turned to Crowley. “But who of us is Orpheus, I wonder, and who the poor Eurydice?”

Crowley had no idea what Aziraphale was talking about, and he certainly didn’t like the reference to death. 

“Let’s go up to bed, hm? I think we’ve done enough reading down here for now.”

Aziraphale did not protest as Crowley led him up the stairs and into the guest room, where one of the humans had put clean sheets on the bed. Feeling exhausted and a bit lost, Crowley guided Aziraphale into the bed, tucking the blankets around him before climbing in himself, nuzzling up against the angel and willing his presence to be enough.

***

Crowley would have just as well stayed in bed for hours, but once the sun rose and the sounds of life rattled up from downstairs, Aziraphale was up and fussing, and Crowley had no choice but to follow him. 

Downstairs, supplies were laid out on the kitchen table: a bowl of holy water Anathema had taken from a nearby church, a neatly arranged handful of blades and tweezers, bandages, and a large bowl of the same poultice Anathema had mixed up for Crowley’s wounds. The smell was enough to make Crowley’s stomach lurch with the memory. A kitchen chair had been placed with its back to the table.

Anathema stood next to the chair, looking nervous and expectant. Newt was beside her.

“Best to get started, I suppose,” Aziraphale said. He took a seat in the chair and began to roll his sleeve up.

“Would it be better, erm, I wonder,” Newt stammered, “if your shirt was off? I only don’t want it to get, well, you know. Blood.” 

His nervous nonsense would have been funny to Crowley in another moment. Now, it just irritated him. 

“I’d rather prefer to keep it on, if that’s the same to you,” Aziraphale said. 

Once the scar was exposed, Aziraphale laid his arm on the wooden arm of the chair, and Anathem picked up a leather belt. Crowley could see it had sigils newly scratched into it. She started to strap Aziraphale’s arm down.

“Wait,” Crowley nearly shouted. “What are you doing?”

“It’s fine, darling,” Aziraphale said, making no move to resist Anathema as she pulled the buckle tight. “It’s just a precaution. No miracles until we’re ready, and to keep everything still.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Crowley pointed accusingly at Anathema as she took another belt from the table. “It’s barbaric.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. 

“No. No! What, I’m just supposed to stand by while they - while you -  _ no _ !”

Aziraphale’s calm was maddening. “It’s the only way, dear,” he said, his voice even. “But if it’s upsetting you, perhaps it’s best if you wait for me upstairs.”

That stopped Crowley cold. How could Aziraphale possibly think Crowley would leave him alone for this?

“No, angel, of course not, I’m staying.” Crowley forced himself into steadiness. This tantrum wasn’t helping anyone. He pulled up a chair next to Aziraphale and took the angel’s free hand. “I’m here, I’ll always be here.”

Aziraphale wove his fingers between Crowley’s and smiled. “I know.”

“Ready?” Anathema was holding a gleaming silver scalpel in one hand. Newt ducked outside.

Aziraphale nodded, holding Crowley’s gaze. “Yes, dear.”

The surgery itself went quickly enough. Aziraphale gritted his teeth and squeezed Crowley’s hand, and Crowley willed himself not to look at the gruesome work Anathema was doing. After a bit, the stench of Hellfire filled the room and Crowley heard what sounded like a small pebble clattering onto a plate. Aziraphale closed his eyes and moaned, his head falling back against the chair.

“Almost done,” Anathema murmured, packing the wound with her herbal remedy and wrapping it in gauze. Crowley knew that wasn’t true. The worst part was yet to come. If that was indeed an infernal wound, Aziraphale’s mind would be yanked back into Hell, and the darkness would use every cruel and dirty trick to lure him into surrender. 

Crowley remembered how close he had come to falling prey to that despair, to believing the false promises Hell sang like a siren. But he was not worried that Aziraphale would succumb, he realized. He knew how strong the angel was, how unwavering. No, Crowley had to admit to himself, part of his unwillingness to let Aziraphale undergo this trial was his certainty that Aziraphale would sail through it, and thus reveal how weak Crowley was in comparison.

None of that mattered now. He would see Aziraphale through this, and only afterward would he have time to indulge the shame of his own failures.

“There.” Anathema was as somber as Crowley had ever seen her as she fixed the gauze and sat back from Aziraphale’s tense and sweaty body. She quietly unbuckled the straps holding Aziraphale’s arm down, then looked at Crowley. He nodded at her, silent permission to leave. Her work here was done, and there was no need for more witnesses to what came next.

She swished away, out of the cottage into the garden where Newt was waiting, and then they were alone in the kitchen. 

“That’s it, angel,” Crowley cooed, running gentle fingers through Aziraphale’s curls. “You did it, you made it.”

Aziraphale was yanking on his rolled up shirtsleeve, trying to tug it down over the bandage on his arm. Crowley helped him do it, though of course it was silly and unnecessary - but once it was done, the angel visibly relaxed. 

“Let’s get you into bed.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale from the chair onto his feet, and they were headed for the stairs when Aziraphale saw the living room coffee table, littered with books and papers.   
  
“Oh my,” Aziraphale said wistfully, and made a beeline for the living room.

“No, Aziraphale, you don’t need - let’s go lay down for a bit, alright?”

But Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley’s gentle grip and stumbled over to the sofa. Crowley sighed and followed him. Aziraphale grabbed a book and began flipping through the pages far too quickly to be absorbing any information. 

“Must do, must do,” he was muttering. He reached where his shirt pocket would be and seemed distressed not to find any reading glasses. He checked again, and again, until Crowley handed him his own sunglasses, and Aziraphale put them on, settling down somewhat.

Suddenly, Aziraphale grabbed one page in his fist and ripped it out of the book. 

“Agh! Aziraphale, what are you doing?” Crowley reached for the book but Aziraphale jerked it away defensively. 

Aziraphale tore another page out, then dropped the book on the floor, holding the two pages. “All we have, all there is,” he said slowly, as if he were addressing the pieces of paper.

Crowley had no idea what to do. The books belonged to Anathema, and he was certain they were not exactly disposable, but there was no way he could try and stop Aziraphale, not when he was like this.

“Not listening! No one listens!” Aziraphale held the pages up to the light, as if he could see something through them. “Truth replaced by silence.” Aziraphale slammed the pages down on the coffee table so hard the sound made Crowley wince. 

“Be gentle, love,” he cautioned, worried about the wound on Aziraphale’s arm. It didn’t seem as if the angel heard him.

“Pen, pen, mightier than the sword! Might makes right, need a pen, need a pen,” Aziraphale chattered darkly as he smacked his hands around the table, searching. Crowley slid a pen toward the angel’s frantic hands and Aziraphale snatched it up. He started scribbling on the papers he’d ripped out.

Crowley leaned in close to see what Aziraphale was writing. More lists like the ones he’d made in Hell, only these ones were even more meaningless.

One was just titled “GET OUT” and was followed by a crooked line of numbers - a list with no content. Another one, labeled “CLUES” appeared to be a list of phrases and questions, ranging from “hope is the thing with feathers (wings???)” to “we are each our own devils and we make this world our hell - our devils, who?”

But the one that broke Crowley’s heart the most was written down the margin of one of the pages, and simply read:

  1. Crowley
  2. Crowley
  3. Crowley
  4. Crowley
  5. Crowley

and so on, wrapping around every blank space on the page until Aziraphale ran out of room - sixty one instances in all.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, rubbing the angel’s shoulder, trying to get through to him. Aziraphale turned toward his voice, looking dazed, and in doing so, brushed his bandaged arm against the edge of the coffee table. He winced and grabbed it, holding the injured spot tightly with his other hand.

And then he started to cry. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sniffed, big wet tears falling from his blue eyes. “How foolish, foolish. Stupid. Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry. It’s all gone, gone, I let it go. Too many eggs in my basket, a handbasket, a road of good intentions. Oh Crowley, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Crowley said, holding Aziraphale, but the angel was lost somewhere, sobbing into his hands, deaf to Crowley’s reassurances, blabbering to himself.

“Mustn’t know, oh, he won’t ever know. All the fool, me. I loved him, and now it’s all for nothing. Nothing, and I’ll be nothing, and he oughtn’t know, no. All that’s left of me, all there is, nothing, nothing. A handbasket of nothing. Broken eggs. Wasted, all gone. And him never knowing.”

Crowley clung more tightly to Aziraphale. “I know, I know.” he said, lips pressed to the angel’s ear. “You made it back to me, love, and I love you, and I know. I know it all.”

And then Aziraphale’s hands found Crowley, were fisted in his shirt, as the angel cried and Crowley knew he had broken through. They were not lost to each other. 

When Anathema poked her head back in that afternoon, Crowley was holding Aziraphale, who dozed limply on the couch. They were surrounded by the detritus of Aziraphale’s muddled forays into research, and when Anathema saw the damaged books lying on the floor, Crowley could only offer an apologetic shrug.

Whispering so as not to disturb Aziraphale, Anathema let Crowley know that the ritual could be performed whenever they were ready. Of course Aziraphale would be antsy to complete it as soon as he woke up, but Crowley wanted more time, more rest. Loath to leave Aziraphale, but unwilling to try and move him to the bedroom, Crowley shifted them slightly so he could stretch out, still cradling Aziraphale, and closed his eyes. 

He worried about Aziraphale. He worried that the ritual might not work, or would carry unintended consequences. Nothing felt sure, and Crowley felt like they had been fighting for so, so long. But for now, he had Aziraphale in his arms, and a sun-warmed sofa, and he let himself drift, hoping this small respite would be enough preparation for what was to come.


	34. Never Be Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes up after his night recovering from the extraction, but the trauma is still raw. Anathema and Newt help Crowley and Aziraphale complete the unpleasant ritual to break their contract with Hell. 
> 
> Note: Aziraphale is dissociating for most of this chapter, so if that's squicky for you, be aware.
> 
> The incredible @hikaru9 made some absolutely stunning art for this story; [please check it out and leave her some love!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116475)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY that this update took so long to come! I was signed up for 2 holiday swaps (check out my pieces for, and gifts from, them!), plus regular holiday chaos, plus some extra nonsense in my personal life. But this story is ALMOST done and I plan to have it finished by the end of the month at the latest. And I promise won't leave y'all hanging for long, especially after this short chapter with a cliffhanger ending! Huge thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting, you keep me going.

Aziraphale woke the next morning feeling foggy-headed, a throbbing ache in his arm. He couldn’t remember many details of the previous day, but a dull sense of shame permeated his mind. Perhaps he didn’t want to remember. 

He dragged his eyes open and looked up to see that he was on the sofa in Anathema and Newt’s living room, surrounded by books. Some of them looked terribly damaged, and he cringed at the suspicion that he had done so. 

Crowley was on the sofa too, wrapped around Aziraphale. The demon was sleeping, but didn’t look too comfortable. Aziraphale remembered his long, anguished vigil over Crowley as he recovered from his infernal wounds, and was filled with gratitude and sorrow at the thought of what Crowley had endured.

Aziraphale moved to lift himself off the sofa, wincing at the soreness in his limbs, trying not to wake Crowley. But the awkward movement was enough to disturb the demon, whose eyes flew open as if he had not been intending to sleep.

“Morning,” Aziraphale said softly, trying for a smile.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, I’d imagine,” Aziraphale said, stretching his aching arm out tentatively. “Glad to be here.”

“Me too,” Crowley said, sounding choked up. 

They regarded each other in silence for a bit. Aziraphale considered saying something - anything - about what had apparently happened after the extraction, but no words came. He found himself entirely unwilling and unable to discuss it. 

“Well then,” the angel said after some interminable minutes. “Shall we?”

“Angel…” Crowley sounded nervous. “There’s no rush.”

“I rather feel there is,” Aziraphale said, standing stiffly from the couch. “Getting out from under an incarceration contract with Hell seems like something that ought to be done sooner than later.”

Crowley stood, too, rolling his shoulders. “Alright.” 

Soon they were in the kitchen with Anathema and a nervous looking Newt. The shard of brimstone sat on a plain clay dish, looking much the same as it had when Aziraphale last saw it, save for a few bloodstains. His stomach clenched to see it, and he fought down a wave of nauseous terror. 

Anathema began to explain the ritual, but Aziraphale could hardly hear her. He felt as if his consciousness had shrunk to a tiny pinprick at the back of his skull, and there was too much distance between himself and anything he meant to pay attention to. Crowley’s hand was holding his, and Aziraphale squeezed tightly, focusing on the sensation. 

Then they were in the garden -  _ how did they get there? _ \- and Anathema was chanting something. Aziraphale smelled the acrid smoke of brimstone and his eyes began to water. Something splashed on the ground with a wet, heavy sound. He rubbed his eyes and coughed. Crowley put one hand on his shoulder and leaned in close.

“You okay?”

Aziraphale nodded. His knees felt wobbly. Perhaps this had been a bad idea. 

Crowley’s voice came to him as an echo down a long well. “Can he sit? Can he sit down?” 

Then there were hands on him, gentle but firm, taking his elbows, guiding him down, and he was on the grass, cool and damp under him. 

His pants would get wet. He did not want his pants to get wet. But here he was, sitting in the grass.

He only had the one pair of pants. It wasn’t fair.

Aziraphale rested his hands on his legs, where his pants were dry, and tried not to cry.

_ A silly thing to cry over, wet pants.  _

Anathema’s voice, asking him something.

His own voice, agreeing.

Someone held a glass to his lips, cool and curved. He drank. It tasted of saltwater and crushed leaves and ashes. Aziraphale choked down a sludgy mouthful and started to cough. Crowley’s hand whacked him between the shoulders until he calmed.

The glass, again. Aziraphale turned his head away.

“You’ve got to finish it,” Crowley said. Aziraphale shook his head. He couldn’t, he didn’t want to. 

Anathema and Newt, sounding concerned. Suddenly they were close to him, crowding in. Standing too tall over him, since he was sitting down. Oh, his pants _ . _ Aziraphale shook his head, curved his back to hide himself, bent over his knees, still shaking his head. Too much, too much. 

Then it was just Crowley, his voice soothing, and the stench of the concoction under his nose. Aziraphale tried to shove the cup away.

“I know, I know,” Crowley said, wrinkling his face in sympathetic disgust. “But it’ll be over and done soon enough. Throw it all back in one go, it goes quicker.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale whimpered. But he took the glass from Crowley and held it in trembling hands. 

“That’s it, there you are.” Crowley smiled encouragingly. 

Aziraphale tried to gulp it down, willing himself to just finish it, but stalled and sputtered as soon as the mixture touched his lips. He resigned himself to tiny, pained sips while Crowley rubbed his back and used his other hand to steady the glass.

Whatever it was, it tasted... _ wrong _ , somehow. Like his very being should reject it. And yet, with Crowley gently cheering him on, Aziraphale eventually drained the glass before dropping it on the ground.

“Horrid,” he squeaked out. The inside of his mouth felt terribly bitter, not merely in taste but as if some cruel and vengeful presence had taken up above his tongue.

“Indeed.” Crowley stood and hauled Aziraphale up with him. “Let’s get inside. They’ll be hearing about this any minute now.”

Newt had prepared two glasses of blackberry lemonade, and Aziraphale gratefully drank his, letting the sweetness wash through his mouth. He noted with guilt how quickly Crowley grabbed for his own lemonade.

After the lemonade came sandwiches, piled with every one of Aziraphale’s favorite toppings - clearly Crowley had sent the humans on a very specific errand while he was unconscious. Aziraphale felt himself blush with the loveliness of the gesture combined with his own bashfulness at being so useless these past days.

Newt also brought a package of frozen peas to rest on Aziraphale’s arm. The cold, combined with the food, seemed to wake his body up from whatever daze it had been in. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. Crowley was across from him, with a sandwich of his own. The demon wasn’t often one for eating, but the foul taste of the ritualistic drink would have anyone craving a nibble.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley awkwardly tore off a bite using only his front teeth. Of course - the sharp incisors he would have used were gone, leaving empty gaps where his fangs had been. Back in Hell, when they were planning their escape, Crowley had only told Aziraphale that Hell took his fangs and that he was no longer able to take his snake form. He was not interested in discussing the matter further.

Often, when Crowley thought the angel wasn’t looking, Aziraphale saw him worry the vacant with his tongue. And in his sleep, Crowley sometimes pressed a knuckle against his gums, face contorted, as if the injury still pained him. It broke his heart, the violation, and all that Crowley had lost. 

Though everyone did their best to drag lunch out as long as possible, eventually the plates were clear, the bellies full, and a restlessness filled the small cottage. 

“What happens next?” Newt’s voice crackled around the question.

Crowley stopped tapping his fingers on the table just long enough to answer. “They’ll be here any minute now.”

Aziraphale tried to tell whether he felt any different, now that he was released from his bondage to Hell. “How will we know it worked?”

“It worked,” Crowley said tersely, rolling the corner of a paper napkin into a tight bar. 

No one spoke. The foursome sat in anxious quite for some long minutes. 

Aziraphale heard it first - a thunderous clap, then heavy footsteps. Anathema’s head darted up from where she had been pretending to wipe down the countertop. Crowley stood, his jaw set, his eyes grim. 

“They’re here.”

All four of them moved to leave the kitchen, but Crowley held his hand out. “You two stay here.”

Anathema opened her mouth to argue, then closed it and moved to stand next to Newt. Together they followed Crowley and Aziraphale to the front door, standing just under the iron horseshoe and watching as the angel and the demon, hand in hand, stepped out onto the lawn to face the Hellish entourage that had just arrived.

Out on the lawn, Beelzebub stood flanked by Hastur and Corson. Aziraphale suppressed a shudder at the sight of Corson’s dangling limbs and leering grin. 

“Hey, gorgeous.” Corson gave him a lecherous once-over and waved slowly. The move showed off his large wristwatch, which held a glowing red clock displaying the same countdown that had tormented Aziraphale in his cell. 

Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand tightly in his own. “What are you three doing here?” He demanded. “We aren’t yours anymore.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Hastur said, sounding as pleased as Aziraphale had ever heard him. 

“Spell didn’t work.” Beelzebub’s voice was low and sure. 

“All it did was tell us where you were,” Corson taunted. “So thanks for that.”

“Surprised you believed a bit of human magic could get you out of a contract with Hell, clever as you’re supposed to be,” Beelzebub said. “You’ll be coming with us, then. A deal’s a deal, even with demons.”


	35. A Cold Dark Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley believes the demons are bluffing. Aziraphale finds one last deal to make. Jasmine Cottage's front garden takes some damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told y'all I wouldn't make the wait too long! Thanks for sticking with me through this. I'm already getting requests for follow-up pieces to this before it's even finished, and I just love that people are invested in the world and story! I would of course welcome fics or art or anything else based on this!
> 
> Speaking of, please do check out @hikaru9's [incredible artwork!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116475)

_ Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand tightly in his own. “What are you three doing here?” He demanded. “We aren’t yours anymore.” _

_ “That’s where you’re wrong,” Hastur said, sounding as pleased as Aziraphale had ever heard him.  _

_ “Spell didn’t work.” Beelzebub’s voice was low and sure.  _

_ “All it did was tell us where you were,” Corson taunted. “So thanks for that.” _

_ “Surprised you believed a bit of human magic could get you out of a contract with Hell, clever as you’re supposed to be,” Beelzebub said. “You’ll be coming with us, then. A deal’s a deal, even with demons.” _

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hand stiffen and squeeze. Hopeless fear gripped him, and all the angel could do was cling to Crowley.  _ How was this possible? After all that, had the ritual failed? _ The despair was enough to drown him.

“Don’t. Move.” Crowley spoke swiftly and severely to Aziraphale. Aziraphale froze in place.

“Come along, now,” Corson said, a satisfied sneer on his face. “You don’t want to start things off on the wrong foot, now, do you?”

Aziraphale wanted to close his eyes, to shut out everything in front of him. Instead he trained his gaze on Corson, all glittering green eyes and odd proportions. He could see, now, in addition to the new watch, an angry scar on the side of the demon’s neck. Two small, curved, scale-covered horns protruded from his head that hadn’t been there before. Aziraphale swallowed, knowing that if he or Crowley ever ended up back under Corson’s control, the demon torturer would have his own personal vengeance to exact.

“You’re lying,” Crowley said.

Beelzebub placed a hand on their chest and pretended to be offended. “Me? Lie to you? Perish the thought.” Then they touched their chin, pretending to be carefully considering something. “But you’d know, wouldn’t you, whether we were lying? Your copy of the contract would be voided, wouldn’t it?”

Before Crowley could respond, Hastur continued. “He doesn’t have it,” the demon said with a gravelly laugh. 

“Didn’t think to bring one with you?” Corson’s voice dripped with mockery. “Did that slip off your packing list when you were running off?”

Crowley spat a curse, then glared at the assembled demons. “Show me, then.”

Beelzebub crossed their arms and shrugged. “You’re not really in a position to be making demands.”

“Nor are you,” Crowley said, “not after we ended the contract.”

“But you didn’t,” Corson hissed, growing impatient. 

“Prove it.”

For a long, tense moment, they stared each other down, the grass of Jasmine Cottage withering under the feet of the three angry demons. Aziraphale was trembling, but Crowley’s hand in his felt as solid as stone. 

“Come on, angel,” Crowley said, tugging on Aziraphale’s hand. “If they really had rights to us, they’d have hauled us down to Hell already.”

“Sure, we can do that.” Beelzebub’s words were accompanied with a sickening crack and then, in the demon prince’s hand, a long chain appeared, its metal rippling with Hellfire. 

“We just thought it would be nicer if you came along like good boys,” Corson said, hunger in his eyes. “But if you want to do things differently, I’m happy to oblige.” 

Aziraphale, feeling thoroughly defeated, wanted to surrender right there, wanted to fall on his face and beg for mercy. Perhaps if they cooperated now, they could manage. It hadn’t been so bad, had it? Spending the days with Crowley and his smuggled books? He could ignore the clock, the countdown to punishments he had signed himself up for, find a way to cherish the time in between.

But he didn’t collapse and plead for gentle treatment, largely because Crowley started walking back toward the cottage, pulling Aziraphale along with him. “So do it,” he said over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale stumbled a pace behind Crowley, stunned at the demon’s courage -  _ or was it foolhardiness? Was he calling their bluff, or just making things a thousand times worse? _ Between the sound of Corson’s voice, the scent of the Hellfire chain, and the confident threats of the demons, Aziraphale felt he might just fall apart right there, a thousand shattered pieces of desolate terror littering the front garden. All he could do was focus on Crowley’s hand in his and the movement they were making, somehow, away from the demons who had come to retrieve them. 

Crowley led him for a few steps toward the cottage, where Anathema and Newt were watching, wide-eyed, out the front door, when Aziraphale heart a frustrated shriek. They stopped and turned around to see Beelzebub had thrown the chain onto the ground and was glaring at them with clenched fists.

“Oh  _ fuck you _ ,” Corson snarled, and started to advance. But Beelzebub held a hand out, stopping him, and sighed. They snapped their fingers and a mildewy sheet of paper appeared, floating in the air. It was the contract they had signed, but stamped across it in what looked like grey-green mold read the word VOID.

“Thought so.” Crowley snatched the contract from the air. “We’ll be keeping this, then, and you’ll be leaving us alone.  _ Forever _ .”

Corson looked about ready to lunge at them. Aziraphale fought the urge to hide behind Crowley. “Human magic is weak,” the green-eyed demon said, chest heaving with barely restrained violence. “That spell can be broken.”

“Well I suppose we’ll hear from you then,” Crowley said dismissively. “Let’s go, angel.”

Aziraphale wanted to ask Crowley whether that was true, whether they still lived under threat of the contract renewing, but all he could do was numbly follow. 

“Wait,” Beelzebub said, though it sounded more like a request than a demand.

Crowley spun around and shouted. “You have no more business with us! Leave us be!”

“The brimstone piece,” Beelzebub said. “We’d like it back. Not safe, to have it up here around the humans.”

“And why should we do that?” 

“It’s a risk to you, too,” Beelzebub explained. “In the wrong hands, it could be a danger to all demonkind.”

“Well it’s currently in our hands, so you can kindly shove off.” 

“We’ll come back for it,” Corson said, sounding thrilled by the idea. “You don’t want to hold onto something we want, or we might have to resort to certain old-fashioned tactics to get it back.”

“Yeah,” Hastur said. “Go ahead and keep it, so we can have some fun later.” He very crudely grabbed his crotch while grinning stupidly at Crowley, and Aziraphale felt like retching. 

Crowley turned to Anathema and opened his mouth to speak, but something occurred to Aziraphale. Letting go of Crowley’s hand for the first time since they’d left the cottage, he stepped forward and addressed the demons himself. “Give him his fangs back.”

“What?”

“His fangs,” Aziraphale said, steadying his voice and squaring his shoulders. “Give them back to him, and we’ll give you the brimstone in exchange.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s arm and trying to lead him inside, “just leave it.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, shaking out of Crowley’s grip. “It’s mine. I took it, it came out of me. And if you want it back, you’ll need to trade.”

“We could do that,” Beelzebub said, “but it’s tricky magic. You two would need to come back down to Hell -”

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale stood firmly, his knees no longer weak, his body no longer trembling. “You’ll heal him right here, right now. And then we’ll return your pebble.”

“Fine.” Beelzebub sounded miserably exasperated. They held an arm out toward Crowley and raised their eyebrows.

Crowley, with a glance back at Aziraphale, approached. Beelzebub grabbed Crowley’s jaw roughly, making him wince. His arms were stiff at his sides, hands shoved into his pockets, and his eyes were squeezed shut. Aziraphale wanted to run to Crowley, hold him, protect him, but he didn’t dare make any sudden moves.

Beelzebub tapped Crowley’s gums with long sharp nails, then shoved the demon away. Crowley, rubbing his mouth, stormed into the cottage, where Anathema had retrieved the brimstone on its little plate. 

“Here.” He thrust it at Beelzebub, who plucked it delicately from the plate and pocketed it. “We square now?”

Beelzebub nodded.

“Until next time,” Corson said, giving Aziraphale a too-wide smile. Then, with a horrible squelching sound, the demons disappeared, leaving only a festering puddle in their wake.


	36. Outlive the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale negotiates with Heaven, at great moral cost to himself. Crowley has to face the retinet again. And finally, they are free.
> 
> This is the last "plot" chapter; the remaining few will be focused on a bit of recovery wrapping up the A/C relationship! Huge thanks to everyone for coming along on this adventure with me!

Crowley’s mouth hurt, almost as badly as when they had first pulled his fangs out. He couldn’t stop rubbing the places where Beelzebub had touched him - the gaps where the previously healed-over flesh was now bloody and raw.

Leave it to the demon prince to fulfill their promise in the most painful way possible. Damned bastard could have just put them back to rights, but no - Crowley could barely feel the hard bony buds under tender skin and was sure it would take plenty of time.

They were inside the cottage now, and Crowley wondered where that bag of frozen peas had gotten off to. He remembered when little Warlock was teething, how the babe had screamed and screamed. Well, if it felt half as bad as this, Crowley sure couldn’t blame him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he grumbled to Aziraphale as he dropped heavily onto the sofa, a thumb pressed against his gums. “Best not to bargain with demons.”

“It had to be done,” Aziraphale sniffed in that maddeningly haughty way of his as he sat down beside Crowley.

“I don’t like it, you trying to make trades. You ought to let me do the talking.”

Aziraphale looked somewhat chastened by that, at least. “I just couldn’t stand it,” he said. “You, not able to access your other form - I had to do something.”

“Raising your voice at them like that, though,” Crowley said, concern softening his scolding tone. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m well aware of the capacity those gentlemen have for violence,” Aziraphale said, his words heavy with implications. “You were the one provoking them, calling their bluff.” 

Crowley could tell that Aziraphale was trying to match his scolding, but it came out rather awe-struck. The demon smiled. 

Anathema, who had been hovering in the doorway, finally spoke. “How did you know that they were bluffing?”

Crowley shrugged. “I didn’t, really. I just figured you’re a clever enough witch not to have buggered the spell, and hoped I was right.”

Anathema looked flattered, and relieved, and a bit alarmed. “Well I’m glad you were.”

“Now what?” Newt poked his head out from behind Anathema, where he had been standing and fidgeting. “Does this mean you can do miracles again, now that they know where you are?”

“Hell does, at least,” Aziraphale said. “I’d imagine my former colleagues will find out soon enough, after that excessive display of demonic nonsense.”

Crowley heard the dismissive bravery in Aziraphale’s voice, but the angel had huddled up close to him on the sofa and was still quaking. He wrapped a steadying arm around Aziraphale. 

“What’s the plan when they arrive?” Newt asked. 

Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, hoping that the angel had a plan - because he certainly didn’t. Facing down Corson and eliminating the contract’s hold on them had taken so much of his effort and focus that he had nearly forgotten that Heaven was likely also on their tails. 

“Well, I imagine Gabriel will be wanting that device off,” Aziraphale said. Crowley had never heard anyone discuss a retinet with such matter-of-fact casualness, and it struck him that Aziraphale did not at all comprehend the reality of retinet torture.

The demon felt at once very grateful, and very alone.

“What device?” Anathema joined the two in the living room, taking a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, while Newt disappeared into the kitchen.

Aziraphale was about to answer when Crowley interrupted him with a wave of his hand and a sharp “Nothing important.” He did not want to explain or describe a retinet to a human, especially not one as bright and lovely as Anathema. Some things were best kept outside of mortal minds.

Thankfully, Aziraphale took his meaning, because the angel dropped the subject. “All that matters is that the archangels need something done, and only I can do it.”

“So you intend to negotiate based on that,” Anathema finished with a nod.

“That’s the long and short of it, yes.” Aziraphale had stopped trembling, but was now acting restless and fidgety. Crowley wished the angel could just stop fretting for one blessed moment and take a breath, but that seemed unlikely, given his next words. “No sense in waiting any longer, right dear?”

Crowley blinked, working out an answer. He absolutely did want to wait - a standoff against the demons who had tortured him for ages seemed like enough for the day without a tense encounter with angry archangels added on top. But he could come up with no good reason to delay, and it seemed that Aziraphale was near bursting with nerves.  _ Might as well get it over with _ , even if he’d much rather have a nice long nap beforehand.

“I suppose not,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale instantly snapped his fingers, and he was once again in his old clothing - or, Crowley supposed, a facsimile thereof, given that Hell had taken and destroyed the real articles. Aziraphale leaned back against the sofa, a relieved smile on his face, as he reached up to adjust his bowtie. Crowley could tell that Aziraphale had been beside himself for the inability to perform this specific miracle in particular. He touched each one of the buttons on his waistcoat reverently, as if he were reuniting with an old friend. 

No sooner had Aziraphale reacquainted himself with his beloved clothing than there was a knock at the door: three hard raps.

Aziraphale rose, again straightening his bowtie, although it had not moved since he last touched it seconds earlier. “I’ll get that.”

Anathema shot Crowley a worried look, and he nodded toward the kitchen. She disappeared in a flourish of heavy skirts, but Crowley could tell she was just around the corner, listening intently.

“Do come in.” Aziraphale’s voice as he opened the door was distant and polite. Crowley marvelled at his angel’s ability to remain collected in the presence of such cruel and imposing beings. Plenty of eons of practice, he figured.

Michael and Uriel filed in together and stood in the center of the living room, straight-backed and businesslike. Michael gave Crowley a curt glare, and Crowley remembered that he was supposed to have met her during his failed execution in Hell. He sneered back from his sprawling seat on the sofa.

There was a long, pained pause, and then Aziraphale was ushering in a hunched, pathetic looking figure that Crowley realized was the archangel Gabriel. 

Gabriel was covered in layers and layers of bunched up blankets and clothing wrapped in a massive bundle around his neck and shoulders. He walked slowly, stooped, his legs weak and stumbling. Crowley knew it was not due to the weight of the coverings tied around him.

Aziraphale led Gabriel inside, and he stopped just beside the sofa, far from the other two angels. For their part, they studiously avoided looking at Gabriel, and their postures telegraphed a desire to be as far from him as possible. 

Gabriel remained standing for a few seconds, then began to sway on his feet before falling to his knees next to Aziraphale. Crowley now had a good look at the archangel’s face, and he looked wretched. Below dull violet eyes, his cheeks were grey, sunken hollows. His back was bent under the mass of cloth tied around his shoulders. He met no one’s eyes. 

Aziraphale looked aghast at the state of the archangel, guilt and horror painted plainly on his face. Crowley demon feared that Aziraphale would be unable to negotiate now, would simply capitulate and show mercy. 

_ You can do this, angel.  _ Crowley hated himself for the thought. It was the utmost injustice, to demand callousness of someone as soft and gentle as Aziraphale.

“It seems,” Michael said, “that you are the only one able to remove the infernal object from him.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, but made no move.

“So, if you would be so kind,” Michael demanded through a clenched jaw. 

“I will, however, first need something in return.” Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s misery in every terrible but necessary word. 

Uriel pointed an accusing finger at Aziraphale, who flinched but maintained his composure. “Your archangel kneels before you, begging for relief from Hell’s worst torture, and you take it as an advantage?”

Aziraphale was wringing his hands, but he did not waver. “I’m afraid so.”

“You would not be surprised,” Michael seethed, “had you seen what he was willing to do in Hell. How he desecrated himself. He is as foul, as defiled a creature as the demon he’s taken up with.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, then back to Michael, and shrugged. “Be that as it may, I’ll be needing an assurance that my companion and I will remain unmolested by any and all powers of Heaven, unto eternity, before I release Gabriel.”

“Very well then.” Michael lifted her chin and spoke with authority. “You have it.”

“In writing, if you would be so kind.”

Michael’s eyes blazed with fury and Crowley tensed as he saw her grip on her spear tighten. “We are not demons,” she spat out. “We do not make  _ contracts _ . My word should be sufficient.”

“Unfortunately,” Aziraphale said, staring down the archangel with a fierceness Crowley had never witnessed before, “it is not.”

Gabriel made a low moan, and everyone in the room turned their gaze toward him. Michael sighed, a low growling sound of resignation and barely-checked rage. She waved a hand and a brilliantly white envelope appeared in Aziraphale’s hands. He broke open the golden seal and pulled out an equally blinding square of paper. The only sound in the room was Gabriel’s ragged breathing as Aziraphale read. 

“Thank you,” he said simply, once he was finished. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. Crowley itched to be able to read it, but he remained where he was.

Under Michael’s severe gaze, Aziraphale knelt down next to Gabriel and reached toward the pile of cloth covering him. He tugged at the fabric, revealing the metallic glint of the retinet against pale flesh. A thick mess of slashes and cuts surrounded it, where it appeared that Heaven had made attempts to remove the retinet without Aziraphale's help.

Crowley felt sick at the sight of the tourture device, and he gripped the couch cushions, fighting back the urge to run. He was not going to fall apart, not in front of the archangels, not while Aziraphale was keeping it together so admirably. 

Gabriel shifted a bit, and under Aziraphale’s hands the cloth fell away entirely. Instantly the room was filled with piercing rays of light, and overlapping images of atrocities, both earthly and ethereal, flickered on the cottage’s walls. A suffocating sense of dread and shame thundered out from Gabriel’s body. Michael and Uriel turned away, covering their faces. Gabriel sobbed openly. 

Crowley kept his eyes on Aziraphale. He could hear nothing over the rumbling powers of the retinet, magnified through the archangel, but he could see Aziraphalel’s lips moving, could see the shapes of the words  _ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. _

Would Aziraphale forgive himself for what he’d done? Would he forgive Crowley, for letting him do it?

Gently, his hands shaking, Aziraphale pried the retinet from Gabriel’s skin. It fell to the floor with a rattling sound. Aziraphale crushed it under his heel, grinding the thing into bloodied metal shards.

Gabriel collapsed onto his face, and the other archangels rushed to his side, shoving Aziraphale aside as he tried to lay a comforting hand on Gabriel. A moment later they were gone, leaving Aziraphale standing in the center of the room, a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and glistening with tears.

“You did it, angel,” Crowley whispered, finally leaving the sofa and walking toward Aziraphale. “It’s over, you did it.”

Aziraphale fell into Crowley’s arms. “I didn’t know, Crowley,” he cried. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

Crowley cupped a hand around Aziraphale’s head and held him close. “You didn’t know,” he repeated. 

Once Aziraphale had calmed somewhat, he pulled back just far enough to make eye contact and smiled weakly. “I believe this means we’re free, now.”

“Yes,” Crowley murmured. “We’re free.”

Free from Heaven and Hell’s machinations, perhaps. But based on the haunted look in Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley guessed that true freedom would elude them for a while yet.


	37. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley start the long process of returning home to each other, and to London.

It had been three days since the archangels visited, since Crowley was ‘gifted’ with the return of his fangs, since Aziraphale had crushed the retinet under his heel like a cockroach, since the two of them had gained possession of the contracts guaranteeing them full and eternal freedom.

They remained at Jasmine Cottage, neither wanting to broach the subject of returning to their homes in London. There was something between them, something they were both carrying, that they would not bring to those places. 

To those lives.

The lives they had been so brutally wrenched away from, the lives they had fought to return to, the lives they hoped were still waiting for them among teabags and plant misters.

But first, they had business to finish here.

Crowley was in the guest room’s little bathroom, sneering and snarling in the mirror as he poked at his tender gums. His fangs had come through, little gleaming points of bone, but it would be a while before they reached their full length.

Aziraphale sat on the bed, a book in his lap, though he had long ago given up all pretense of reading. He was watching Crowley, his heart nearly full to bursting. Finally, he gave in to the pull and joined the demon, sidling up behind him as he stood at the counter.

“They’re coming along nicely,” Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley’s reflection over his shoulder.

“Bah,” Crowley grumbled. “Just nubs.”

“Does…” Aziraphale scratched behind his ear, working up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on him for days. 

Well. One of the questions.

“Does it work? Have...have you tried yet?”

“No.” Crowley leaned in close to the mirror and stuck his tongue out, turning this way and that as he examined himself. 

“I think,” Aziraphale continued, “I think you should try.”

“They’re not all the way back yet,” Crowley argued. “Might not work.”

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley heard the heaviness of the sigh, and he wished he could lighten the load his angel was carrying. But there was too much there, and he worried he just might collapse under the weight if he tried. 

They had not spoken about the tender kisses and caresses they shared in Hell’s dungeons together. They had not touched each other like that since the chaos of their liberation.

Crowley had not asked whether Aziraphale was privy to his anguished confession of love.

Aziraphale had not mentioned the things he had seen from his invisible prison.

They had kept so many secrets from each other, tucked away isolated pains, and it felt as if they stood on opposite ends of a delicate bridge, as if taking a step toward each other might bring the whole structure down.  And yet, remaining at this distance was perhaps more painful than it might be to end up under a bridge’s worth of rubble, as long as they were together at the bottom.

“You’ve kept your hair short,” Aziraphale murmured as he ran his hands through Crowley’s tightly shorn hair.

Crowley made a noncommittal grunt. 

“I liked it long.” Aziraphale continued stroking Crowley’s scalp, toying with the small wisps of his hair. “Do you miss it?”

Crowley stood up from where he’d been leant over the sink, making it harder for Aziraphale to read his hair. “Why do you ask?”

It was unfair, he knew. A too-prickly question. But Aziraphale had brought it up. Never content to let things lie, the angel was determined to press the issue.

Did Crowley miss his long hair? Of course he did. But to return it to its former length would be to make a claim upon reality, to openly admit acceptance that the ordeal was  _ over _ , and it felt too vulnerable, too precarious.

He had read over their contracts a thousand times, searching for loopholes, trying to convince himself that it was true. Anathema had helped him translate the contracts into infernal runes, looking for codes and clues. Aziraphale had been patient, until he wasn’t anymore, and had taken the sheets of paper from Crowley and tucked them away “somewhere safe.”

“Because I miss it,” Aziraphale said.

He certainly missed more than that. He missed Crowley. He missed feeling safe. He missed their easy conversations, untainted by hidden hurts and memories too wounding to revisit. He missed being someone whose hands were clean of torture and cruelty.

“It’ll grow back,” Crowley muttered. And it would, with time. His corporation was plenty human; if left unchecked, the hair would return. Slowly, almost imperceptibly. 

Aziraphale pouted as Crowley turned to face him, the two not-quite-embracing, pressed up against each other in the tiny bathroom. “Won’t that take just ages?”

Crowley slipped around Aziraphale, ending up on the bed. They spent most of their time up in the bedroom, watching the sunlight change out the window, making stuttering attempts to talk about anything besides the floral pattern on the bedspread or whether they should go downstairs and join the humans for tea. 

“We’ve got plenty of time, angel,” Crowley said, staring at the ivy silhouetted against the window screen.

Aziraphale joined him on the bed. He’d started them down this path, and he was committed to chasing Crowley a bit. This evasive sadness was wearing on him, and he knew they could not leave the cottage without giving some kind of name to the situation. Anathema and Newt had been incredibly gracious, but everyone knew the pair had to get on with things.

Soon.

For everyone’s sake.

“I could put it back for you,” Aziraphale said gently, reaching for Crowley’s temple. “Would you? Let me?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Say yes, dear,” Aziraphale pleaded.

“Go ahead, angel.”

Aziraphale summoned all his grace, his love, his powers, and drew out a miracle. Under his fingers, Crowley’s hair returned to long, flowing red curls. Aziraphale nearly gasped at the beauty.

Crowley leaned into Aziraphale’s touch then, melting under the angel’s ministrations for the first time since they had returned home. And then the two were wrapped up in each other, lips and hands and soft breaths.

It felt less like a bridge collapsing than a dam breaking, and they were adrift, they were floating, they were drowning, in a flood of tenderness and love and grief, of all the things that had stayed silent for too long. 

“Did you hear me,” Crowley breathed, “did you hear me say I loved you?”

“Every day,” Aziraphale replied. “Every day, every day, I heard you.

Both were crying, softly flowing tears, shared joy and relief and deep sadness. And both were smiling, genuine smiles, eyes crinkling and lips rising as they took each other in, as they let each other in, finally and for the first time.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said, “love you, love you, every day I’ve loved you.”

That night they said goodbye to their gracious hosts, promised to stay in touch. That night, Aziraphale pocketed the two contracts and Crowley donned the sunglasses Newt had bought him, and they considered themselves all packed. That night, a London cab found itself meandering through Tadfield and its driver found himself charmed by the odd couple who snuggled in his backseat all the way in to the city. 

And if, somewhere along the M-95, one of the men became a large snake, coiled sleepily in the lap of the other, well, the cab driver certainly didn’t pay any mind. 

Later, there would be longer conversations, there would be the irritation of wounds healing, there would be more bridges to cross and more dams to break. But later would come, they knew, as it always did. For now, it was enough for Aziraphale to step into the bookshop, the pleasant weight of Crowley around his shoulders, all muscle under smooth scales, and for the lights to come on, welcoming them home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, folks, is a WRAP! When I started this fic I had no idea what I was doing, or where it was going. This has been an incredible gateway into the world of fandom and fanfiction, and especially the Good Omens fandom in particular. Since starting Desperate Ground, I've made some amazing friends, discovered kink memes, and joined some discords. I've participated in gift swaps, I've even run my own swap! I've had fanart made, I've gotten betas and served as a beta. It's been an incredible ride and I am so SO grateful to everyone who read and commented on this kooky labor of love.
> 
> If you liked Desperate Ground, please check out my other works, and check out the amazing fanart by hikaru9 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116475

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfic ever, like, ever, in any fandom, ever. Inspired by @dreamsofspike's amazing fic _Repossession_ which made me feel so many feelings that I just needed to create something with them. (So I would really love some feedback in the comments!)
> 
> Say hi to me on tumblr @ desperateground.tumblr.com !
> 
> Fic title & all chapter titles are from the band The Thermals. Their album "Desperate Ground" has all of the Crowley/Aziraphale feels. It could basically be the soundtrack to Repossession, the fic that inspired this one.
> 
> alone in the night, lying awake  
knowing it’s only a matter of time  
no use to run, soon they will come  
here i will wait
> 
> deep in a dream, a dream with you  
deep in a dream i am free with you  
no use to run, soon they will come  
i will defend  
here it will end
> 
> so i will love you when i can  
until they kill me where i stand

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hate to See You Suffer: Art inspired by the fic Desperate Ground](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116475) by [hikaru9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru9/pseuds/hikaru9)
  * [Samaritan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122438) by [Gelid_illuminant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gelid_illuminant/pseuds/Gelid_illuminant)


End file.
